It's Gonna Hurt
by Hard Pouncing
Summary: Ana has gotten home after Christian's belt discipline. She's ready to seek treatment and knows she has to get her life back. But Christian is already in treatment and has gotten his life back - because Ana has given it to him. If he can get her back, he's ready to start living. But you can't beat a little brown haired girl and expect her to forget it ...
1. Chapter 1

Oh my God. I am in so much pain. Both emotional and physical. My inner goddess has her ass wrapped up in bubble wrap and is hiding under a large four poster bed with red sheets. Not even a toe is peeking out. My conscience is drugged beyond awareness with painkillers. So that leaves me staring at my butt in the bathroom mirror.

It's Sunday and I have to start my new job tomorrow. SIP. It was supposed to be a great day. How many new graduates were there longing for this chance. Editing was a … oh God! Look at this. I am completely black, there are skin tears and, hell, I'm bleeding from where he beat me. I can barely walk, much less sit. Advil, Tylenol, Aleve, nothing was working. I need painkillers, just like my conscience is telling me. Either that or a bottle of Jack Daniels.

OK, then. Seattle has hospitals and urgent care centers. I get out my map of the bus routes, find one that will take me from Kate and my's apartment to a place called Seattle Family Healthcare. It advertised on the map that it was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I took a deep breath. One thing that could be said for hysterical crying … the lungs got a good work out sucking in air. I shook off the thought, got into the shower and washed. My ass no longer just hurt, my whole body did. Not from the crying and heartache, those should be banned from my existence, but it wasn't happening. No, the pain from my little play time experiment with Christian had spread up my back and down my legs. Since I could barely sit I had had to contort my body in unusual ways to even walk a straight line, much less lay down or do the usual like open the refrigerator and search for a yogurt cup.

I put on a short sleeved sundress, ballet flats, put my hair in a bun. It was a look. Said graduated from college, lost virginity to an orgasm-inducing god, experimented with BDSM, never again. The bus ride I took standing up. It didn't help that the security dog Christian had still following me had slunk onto the bus, having hustled to catch it at the next stop when I surprised him by looking like I was heading to the park closest to the apartment, then stepped onto the bus. It pissed me off that he was still here. Christian's reasoning was beyond me.

God! Why had I let him do that? No. To be fair, I had begged him to. I had enjoyed what he'd been showing me, a little, and I was foolishly in love with him, and I honestly hadn't thought … how could I … that he would beat me. Really beat me. With a goddamn belt. See? See, Ana? This is what love brought you. I'd avoided men like the plague since my Mom's third husband tried to rape me. I had run straight to him and Ray had made it easy to maintain my virginity because guys were afraid of him. And I'd been a bookworm in high school, never one of the pep squad crowd. College and Kate … both had given me opportunities, but I'd been skittish and, really, wanted to save myself for the right guy.

Hey, it was a dream. Shattered, but a dream.

Ignoring the guy following me, I got off at the right stop and hoofed it the few blocks to the urgent care. It took them two hours to call my name. I made myself a small shadow in the corner of a wall, standing until it was my turn. Like I could sit down without screaming? My conscience was dressed in a suit of armor as I lied my way through triage with the nurse, then a PA. Both of them were horrified and I got to see a doctor in no time flat. He was older, maybe fiftyish and had been around. Obviously.

Dismissing the two nurses or aides – firmly, because I guess it's some law that a female staff person has to stay with a female patient when a doctor it examining them - he pulled up a roller stool and began to calmly and without any appearance of embarrassment, to put pain relieving and antibiotic cream on my black swollen ass. "I take it this was … consensual," he asked casually.

I glanced back at his face, impassive, checked his name tag. "Look, Dr. Lowe, I don't want to talk about it." I can't. I signed a NDA. Now shouldn't that have been my first clue that running was for more than exercise?

"DO NOT take that tone with me, young lady," he snapped.

Instantly I quelled, hunching in on myself, clutching the corners of the examination table and ducking my head to the paper sheet on top of its cracked leather. "I'm sorry, sir." God! Had I apologized to Christian for letting him do this to me? Why? Was I really so pathetic? _Of course you are,_ my Inner Goddess responded, getting her head out from under the bed in Christian's Red Room of Pain. _You were still hoping that after he beat us half to death, Christian would have an epiphany and say he loved you._

"You should be. Why didn't you safeword?"

WHAT? I would have fallen off my perch on the table with my naked ass up to his lotiony hands if he hadn't used those hands to put me back on my perch. Little bird, little bird. I pulled back on the Don Quixote songs. "I don't know what you mean," I mumble instead.

He ignored that. "This level of punishment is obviously something only an experienced submissive would allow." Which you are obviously not, was unspoken. "Did he ignore the safeword?"

"I didn't say it." Ok, I'd been too busy trying to be brave, then trying to avoid going into shock, then just praying to get through the six count and that Christian would stop at six.

He sighed heavily. "If you're going to go into the submissive business, you'd better take on a trainer with some experience. I could recommend somebody."

Let me guess …

"Her name is Elena. I'll get you her card." The doctor finished with the cream, stood and helped me stand up. He was very gentle, pulling my underwear up so as not to hurt me as much as possible, and I recognized the same manner of handling me that Christian had. So, a fellow Dom. I had time to think that maybe Seattle was full of them. Like that vampire movie where all those teenagers in the town were vampires and the grandpa had known all along … "I'm also going to give you a card for a private clinic. Next time –"There's a clinic and a next time?! – "use that. It's private, no questions will be asked."

I pulled my sundress down and finally glanced at his face. He had deep brown eyes that were presently quite kindly. I already knew enough about Doms that I could guess those same eyes could get hard and cold, bright with excitement at a good hard fuck after a good hard discipline. Quickly, I looked down … _My, aren't you the good little sub,_ my conscience sneered. She had a pillowed wrapped around her ass and was smoking a Mary Jane … it helped with pain, right?

"I'll also make the records of your visit here disappear. Next time, don't use your real ID." There were those words again. Next time. Really? "I see from your chart that you're using The Pill. That's quite frowned upon, as a submissive can easily be tied up for several days and a dosage could be missed." Several DAYS? Jesus, had Christian really thought I could be a submissive? I couldn't believe he was so wrong about me. How had he gotten so good in business if he read people this wrong? "So I'm going to give you an injection of a birth control called Lunelle. Not used here in the USA, but very popular in Europe. I'm also giving you a one year prescription for the injections. You can give them to yourself monthly."

He disappeared out the door and the probably mandatory social worker came in. I sobbed my way through a box full of tissues, the cheap kind you had to use two for each time because otherwise what was the use?, and denied it was any kind of assault, refused a rape kit, and pretty much made her day a living hell by not giving her one iota of information no matter how many ways she asked. Finally, giving me her card – sure, what's one more – she left. Dr. Lowe popped back in, gave me a fast shot in my right thigh as I stood there dumbly in astonishment, whispered, "Good girl. I wouldn't mind a contract when you've been trained better." Then he handed me a fistful of prescription scripts and business card, then headed back out.

A few minutes later the nurse reappeared, gave me my discharge instructions … obviously Dr. Dom hadn't told anyone about my shot and the prescriptions, and I was on my way out the door.

My security guy looked like he'd rather be killing baby puppies, or like he'd just been told he had an STD. Taking pity on him, I slowed down as I passed him on the sidewalk. "Let's go," I muttered, blushing. He didn't bother to act surprised or like he didn't know me, just fell into step behind me. Good boy.

See? I could be a Dom, too.


	2. Chapter 2

SIP is a nice place. It's got a lobby with two receptionists and security by their desk and by all three of the elevators. They don't just publish books. They're into a lot of internet things, magazines, advertisements. I sit, very very carefully, through the morning training for new hires. The paperwork is interspersed by men and women coming in to talk about their divisions.

Carter Laumber is with Acquisitions. "That means acquiring clients," he explains. It makes me laugh and he gives me a startled look. I flush when I realize no one else has gotten the joke, or maybe it wasn't funny. But after spending all weekend crying and screaming into pillows, it feels good to make a noise from a different part of my body. Laughing uses different muscles, right? But he gives me a small grin and goes on to explain one of the primary jobs a book publisher does is read submitted manuscripts to see if any of the submissions meet the standards of her publishing company. This includes working out contracts with prospective clients.

He is moved out and we do our tax forms. The in comes Allen Smith, who is in charge of Editing and Consulting. He explains how once a client has been obtained, they will edit the manuscript with an assigned editor who has to consult with the author and answer any questions that may arise about the publishing process.

After Mr. Smith we get a break. Apparently they take these schedules seriously. And our schedule says we take a break. I am going to have to create a new mindset, I think as I stand in line at the lobby coffee stand and order a green tea latte. Professional dress, professional demeanor, professional attitude and behavior. I casually look around at the several hundred people coming and going, note the clothes, heels and makeup for the women. Many of them carry attractive sidebags, just right for paper manuscripts. There's a way that the front desk girls – they're both around my age – say good morning or hello to some of the women that tells me immediately which ones are in charge or respected. I make sure to eye their outfits so I can copy them. Despite the money from Christian – does he think I'm a frigging imbecile that Taylor got that much money for poor Wanda? – I'm a Wal-Mart and Kmart girl. But you don't grow up lower middle class, some would say lower class, but fuck them, without knowing how to take pieces and put them together; especially when these business women are showing me exactly what I need to know.

We start off after the break with signing our lives away about confidentiality of anything we see, hear or even sense at SIP. I feel more and more suspicious that Seattle is made up of paranoid Doms and beaten Subs as we all submissively sign our lives away. Then it's Monique Janique with Designing.

Monique looks like a female Dom. She's incredibly tall and curvy with a ton of blonde hair sleeked back into a high ponytail. She's even wearing a bright red leather suit. Maybe I should sign on with her? My Inner Goddess is looking like a child playing dress up in the outfit that is five times too big for me. Never mind. Ms. Janique explains that book publishers also help authors design their book cover to make it stand out on the book shelf. They present a number of different book cover designs and different fonts from which the author chooses. This task includes presenting writers with illustration that may appear in the book. Hence, they employee artists, graphic designers, and a smorgasbord of others.

My ass is beginning to really hurt and it takes a lot of effort not to shift around. I really want to stand up and lean against the wall, but that wouldn't be professional. So I sit and suffer. As the HR woman begins to read every single word in our Policy and Procedures handbook – more like an encyclopedia – I think about Christian. How soft his hair is. How those grey eyes express his moods. How those moods change like a freaking weather pattern over this city. How had I fallen in love with him? Yes, he was beautiful. I didn't care about the money. And frankly the power of him as a businessman didn't make a lot of sense to me. So he was good at his job, so were lots of people. And the little I'd seen of him screaming and shouting hadn't made me feel too good about how that power sat on his shoulders. Was that how he treated all his employees? As a sub, he'd certainly felt free to be a bastard to me in every way.

But the truth is that my heart is broken. I had offered it up like a piece of taffy and Christian had let me know he didn't want sweets. Wow, that was a sad way to dramatize my saying "I love you" to him. And what was worse … even after I let him abuse me with a belt, I had to tell him. I would have forgiven all six hits if he'd even pretended to love me back. What kind of sick person was I? I'd always thought only women with a sixth grade education and no life goals stayed with men who beat them. Apparently I was a break away or wrong.

Lunch time everyone splits off and I wandered outside to find a nearby park and watch the water. It's sunny and warming up, so there's plenty of people. I ate my yogurt, take another pain killer as I lean against a tree that's gotten leaves and offers some shade. I don't feel like eating, but the painkillers have to be taken with food, so yogurt it is. See, Ana, you can follow basic instructions. It said on the bottle that I had to take the pills with food. So I'm taking the pills with food. So I guess that makes me submissive to my medicine. Great.

I've already dug out my old cell phone and texted Kate. She's doing good and says she's in love with Elliot Grey and is sure he is THE ONE. I resisted telling her I was not doing good, am in love with Christian Grey and that he is THE ONE who made me look up PTSD on her computer when, after paying the guy who'd come to the door last night with my prescription order had left, I had screaming hysterics. My Inner Goddess has resumed hiding under furniture and my conscience had begged for Jack Daniels. Luckily for both, I'd just taken a pill and used more pain killing cream on my swollen nether regions.

I was giving a casual look around when I saw Taylor coming my way. It was an immediate fight or flight situation. Given that I was in four inch heels and a tight pencil thin skirt, flight was an option only if I was going to be physically attacked. And Taylor had never scared me. Christian had scared me all the time. But Taylor, not once. So I waited as he inevitably strode up to me. He was a good looking guy, maybe in his forties. If I'd gone for older men – like Christian wasn't older? – I would have been interested. Back when I preferred men … I was seriously considering women at this point. Although I guess they could be Dom also … Monique.

"Miss Steele." He had a kind of humble look on his GI Joe face. Yeah? Well, where was my rescue when I was getting myself in trouble? Did he and Christian have cameras in the Red Room of Pain? _ Well, of course, Ana_, I curse myself. They had them everywhere else, both at Escala and GEH, the parking garage. Hell, he'd probably sat there and watched Christian show me a lesson with a bag of popcorn on his lap, cheering him on.

"Hello, Taylor." No point in being nasty. I watched as he pulled out a long black jewelry box out of his jacket pocket. Eighty degrees and he's wearing heavy black wool. No sympathy from Ana for you. Not today when I just realized that you've helped maintain all fifteen, excuse me, sixteen of us subs for Mr. Grey.

"He, Mr. Grey, wants you to have this." He held it out.

Wow. Jewelry? I'd be excited if this had been Friday night, before … I grit my teeth, take it and open the hinged lid. I guess it's a bracelet. Maybe a necklace. The ends are under the blue velvet and into the base of the box, so I can't tell. It's some kind of blue stone. I'm not an expert on jewelry and stones. Probably expensive. It's set in silver, or at least gray. Grey. Cute. My Inner Goddess, the mercenary bitch, has her jewelers lope out and is sizing it up. I ignore her, close the lid. Taylor has his hands behind his back, unlike his boss he recognizes that I'm not the kind of girl, well now it's certifiable woman, who would accept even a pair of earrings from the Wal-Mart discount aisle, much less this.

So I calmly, with only shaking fingers like an earthquake, put it into his jacket pocket while he starts to shift away then apparently thinks better of it. Thank God, because the pain pill still hasn't taken effect and I don't think I can chase him on the soft grass in these heels anyway. "Tell Mr. Grey I don't do collars." See, my research into Christian's "lifestyle choice" was paying off. "And even if I did …" Come on, Ana, think of something witty and strong. Or just witty. Something not pathetic. Nothing coming. All those books I've read and I can't think of five or so words to finish this sentence. "No thanks." I crumble up my yogurt container and spoon, carefully walk across the park's smooth lawn toward a trash container.

Taylor's hand cups my elbow and I freaked. Couldn't help it. Instinctive. A reaction to being hurt both physically and emotionally. I jump back by about ten feet – what's the world record? – and feel the tears coming. I think I've bitten my tongue because I taste blood. Shit, shit, shit! Get ahold of yourself, Ana. This is probably just a parting gift, same as the other subs. Oh, great. Now the tears are really flowing. Time for a less than graceful retreat. I trip and go down, nothing new, and Taylor stands behind me not knowing what to do. If he touches me I might scream and then the cops will come running. There's two of them walking the paths making sure child molesters or those creepy guys who like to flash their equipment at women, aren't in the park. Where were they when Christian was selecting that damn belt and had his equipment all in an uproar of excitement? Huh?

Back at SIP I dive into the ladies room and put cool wet paper towels on my eyes, nose and throat. I make myself breath, those little panting sounds that women in labor do, and soon feel myself calming down. When I finally get my eyes open, one of the other women in the new hire group is staring at me. Bug under a microscope look. "Sorry," I manage to croak out, turning red.

She gives me a little smile. She's got brown hair, long like mine, but she's a little chunky. Lose ten pounds and Christian Grey can be yours, I think. Instead, I take another paper towel she offers and blow my nose. "Thanks."

She doesn't say anything, but puts one arm around my shoulders. We look at each other in the bathroom mirror. Either I have definitely turned to women in my sexual preference, or we're gonna be friends.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: In my story I am deleting Jack Hyde since he gets enough written about him … so Ana will have a new boss and new job responsibilities at SIP. Enjoy!**

The pain pill finally takes effect and I can resume my seat without being on the verge of screaming. My new acquaintance is Charlie White. She's twenty-two and just graduated from Memphis State, majored in Art. A fellow Southern girl. Charlie didn't ask me why I was crying, just said she'd been "here" before and helped me cool my face and straighten myself up. I'd managed to rip my hose, probably when I fell, but Charlie had a purse the size of an airplane carryon and she produced a new pair of pantyhose. They were too big, but I wasn't complaining. Note to self … start wearing thigh highs and pack and extra pair … now that I was going to be dressing professionally I may as well be prepared for the accident-prone Ana to go through at least one stocking a day.

After we've all gathered back in the education room the HR woman, a different one this time, turns on a video and we watch about sexual harassment in the work place. Then it's an older gentleman from Copyediting. Harold Marcums looks to be in his late sixties and proudly states he's been with SIP since its beginning, gives a brief history before explaining his division. The publisher provides copyediting. Unlike preliminary editing, copyediting is the final step in the editing process. This is when a copyeditor gives the manuscript a close read, checking for grammatical errors, lack of flowing speech and accuracy of details.

He's almost done when there's a knock at the door and in steps one of the two receptionists. She speaks to the HR woman who points to me and indicates I should follow the other girl out. Swallowing, I stand and try for some grace as I head across the room and out the door. Once out there, I am greeted by a big excited smile and a "Oh my gosh! Come on."

I follow along, admiring her hose that have a single black stripe up the back. It's sexy. My conscience looks at me in amazement, explains that's completely inappropriate. I explain back that I didn't mean to sexually harass the girl, I'm just thinking it, not saying it. And I meant it that the look was sexy. If I was still with Christian … stop it, Ana! The man hit you so hard your ass turned black and blue!

At the reception desk, her side, there's a flower arrangement large enough for a coffin. The girl turns to me with a wide grin and hands over the small card in its envelope. "Who's it from," she asks, like we're friends or something.

I meet her eyes, a friendly brown, and decide that before Christian and his NDAs and paranoia, I would never have been standoffish. Deciding to change that behavior, I grin back and open the card.

_Ana, Congratulations on your first day at work. I hope it is going well. And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful. It has pride of place on my desk. Christian_

Thoughtful? What kind of word is that? It had been a gift. Of course, by the time she'd placed it on his bed it had been … oh, I don't know what. Probably a subconscious act hoping he'd think of me as I'd been when we'd gone gliding, not me bent over that bench taking his – stop it! I focused on the smiling little crowd of women and looked at the flowers. It was white roses and black lilies. Weird combination, but it was striking, to say the least.

"Well?"

My eyes dipped to the name tag over the girl's heart. Alison. I make myself smile. "From an ex-boyfriend. Wishing me good luck on my first day," I explain.

"Ex? Jeez, my current boyfriend wouldn't even do that," Allison shares. She sniffed several blooms. "Do you want me to put them on your desk or will you take them home?"

I shrug. "I don't even know where my desk is yet." I stop myself from offering them to her. It would send the way wrong message. "How do I find out?"

Alison is apparently good at her job. With another big grin – I used to be happy, too – she finishes a last little jump and returns behind the reception desk. "I'll find out and get them there. Ex-boyfriend." She rolls her eyes. "I could wish."

Thanking her, I then return to class. More paperwork. This time I'm signing my life away for insurance forms. I put my step-dad Ray down as my beneficiary. It's not like Kate needs the money and Carla and Bob are on their own, as far as I am concerned. That attitude had finally developed when she'd really not shown up for my graduation. One day out of her life, she couldn't put me first. I'd been understanding for every other event she had made excuses about, high school graduation being the most formalized in the past four years.

After all that, in steps a quite attractive man … in a dress! Wow. This place was certainly permissive, or was it open-minded? Whatever, he was in a dress! Very nice, with matching pumps. He's half way through his presentation on Production and Distribution before I get myself back into focus. He's saying how the book publisher finds the right company to print books at a reasonable price, making sure the printer follows the publisher's specifications and remains in the company's budget. The publisher also finds out how many copies of the book are wanted by bookstores, libraries and other retailers. Then he goes on about the Internet side of things and I daze out again because I noticed that he's wearing fingernail polish and that his legs are shaved …

We get the afternoon break and I go to stand in line for another green tea latte. The damn things are five dollars each. If I do this every day I'll be broke. Well, just for today, then. And I'll enjoy every little sip I take. I say hi to Allison at the desk and Charlie and I wander over to a large seating area with plenty of plants and sunshine. Charlie is either a talker like Kate or she's just trying to make sure there's no room for me to start getting moody and burst into tears. I hear about her parents and growing up with manners being drilled into her head and how people found us Southerners politeness and manners so charming. I suppose it's politeness that keeps her from asking why I am standing instead of sitting down.

The day finishes with Hope Dagwell from Marketing and Promotions. Apparently SIP sends out promotional ads for new books and review copies to magazines and other media outlets, and sets up interviews, book signings and promotional tours for writers. A lot of traveling is involved, as well as hand-holding of nervous or primadona writers. She makes it sound challenging, but I keep thinking she should meet and try to handle Christian Grey … talk about needing to hand-hold and cope with over-the-top behaviors! But that's a train of thought I need to avoid so I refocus.

Now that we've completed our first day with HR, we're escorted to our offices. I'm surprised to find that I've been switched from my original position in Editing and Consulting under Mr. Allen Smith to Mr. Carter Laumber and Acquisitions. As I am dropped off in a large office on the eighth floor with Mr. Laumber's administrative assistant, I feel a sense of loss for the group and Charlie. Bravely I turn to the man behind a long black table that seems to serve as his desk. It is supplied with two different computers, two phones, a laptop and a cell phone. Behind him is a lengthy shelf that has what looks to be manuscript boxes, each with a lock.

But it's the admin who is of the most interest. He's easily my height and weighs twice what I do. His gold name plate on the table says Morgan Zimmerman. He's got brown hair with some mahogany highlights and big blue eyes, a rather pouty mouth and pale skin. Drawing on all my southern charm, which Charlie has helpfully reminded me that people in Washington State can't seem to resist, I offer a shy smile. "You look like me," I blurt out, ruining the attempt.

But apparently I've said something perfect because he goes beet red, same as me, and drops his eyes to the table. We're silent a good minute, then look at each other … and laugh. He quickly offers to show me the kitchen on the eighth floor and shyly tells me to call him Morgan when there's no one else around. I return the favor and tell him I've already figured out that they like some formality around SIP, so will be careful to keep it to first names only on the sly. The entire floor is filled with desks, men and women have their heads bent and are reading their computer screens or manuscripts or are on headsets talking to what I guess is anxious hopeful writers. By the time I know where the kitchen is, have been shown the cappuccino maker and how to make the perfect cup for Mr. Laumber, know the position of the public bathrooms and two private ones, Mr. Laumber is back in his office and I'm shown in by a dignified Morgan Zimmerman.

Mr. Laumber is tall and skinny, kind of an Ichabod Crane with a great little grin that speaks of humor. He directs me to sit down and comes around his desk to lean against it as he sizes me up. "Well, Ms. Steele, I admit I've stolen you. I could use another assistant with a sense of humor. So starting tomorrow we'll give you a try at reading some manuscripts" He stares down at me with considering brown eyes, and they have a sharpness in them that speaks to why he is the VP of his division. "It's not everyone's cup of tea, so all I can ask is that you give it a try. If it's not for you, then I promise a fast transfer to Editing."

I'm lucky to have a job. On the last break Charlie told me how half of her graduating class still doesn't have an interview, much less a position in their chosen field or degree. So I tell Mr. Laumber how thrilled I am with the opportunity and will work hard at learning what the position entails. Then I get up to shake his hand, trip over my feet and in trying not to land on my face I manage to land on my ass.

OH MY GOD IT HURTS! By some miracle, like a real Catholic Saint miracle, I don't scream in pain or burst into tears. Ichabod, I mean Mr. Laumber, helps me up and then paternally escorts me to a desk. After he introduces me to a few people at desks around me, he leaves. Then Morgan brings in the flowers which must have been on my original desk in the Editing division, and that causes a stir. By the time I've explained they are from my ex-boyfriend and everyone gets a sniff, it's the end of the day. Again, I marvel that everyone just packs up and leave. This is so unlike college and my work at Clayton's Hardware. I'm used to working at a job until it is complete instead of living by a clock.

So I go with the flow and exit the building, heading toward the correct bus stop two blocks away. At first, I don't notice the black SUV in the traffic. Why would I? But when I hear "Miss Steele" and realize it is probably the tenth time my name has been called from the packed street, I look. There with the passenger window rolled down and sitting in the driver's seat is the security guard guy. You know, he's probably only a few years older than me, say twenty-five. He's got the typical buzz cut and wears the Christian Grey uniform of black wool suit with white shirt and black tie, so I'm not turned on, nor do I think he's trying to pick me up. At least not in the usual sense of the phrase.

I make a swim from the heavy traffic on the sidewalk and get to the curb. He stops, much to the horror and fury of the drivers around him, hops out and hurriedly comes around to open the back door for me. His eyes, a pretty green, give me this _please just get in_ look, and my whole body is aching like I imagine a rotting tooth feels like, so I get in. He shuts the door and dashes to the driver's side and gets in.

Like an idiot I think to ask, "You are taking me home, right?"

He gives me the briefest look over his right shoulder then gets the SUV into gear and stops the traffic jam. "I'd be a hero if you'd return to Escala. But if you don't want to," he goes on as I feel screaming hysterics prepare to start, "I'll take you back to your apartment."

"Apartment. Please." It's all too much. Rather than focus on anything else I simply close my eyes, rest my head on the side of the vehicle, and let time pass.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Once we park on the street outside me and Kate's apartment, I consider this man. I firmly control the irrational traumatized part of me that wants to say he's going to rape me, beat me like Christian had, and try to ask a question. "What are you doing here? And who are you?" Ok, those two sentences should have been reversed.

He had been waiting to see what I was going to do. Now, keeping his body facing forward, only his eyes moved as he looked in the rearview mirror at me. It was an extended rearview mirror, I found myself noticing – and avoiding his eye contact. "Miss Steele, Mr. Grey wants me to be sure you're safe. And my name is Sawyer. Luke Sawyer."

Well that opened a kettle of pork rinds. My conscience snickers at that phrase. Which question should I ask first? Second, third, one hundred? "Why would I not be safe?"

"You'd have to ask Mr. Grey that, ma'am."

Hey, he's an employee, right? Just like I was supposed to be. "You do know he beat me, right?" Fuck the NDA. I'll claim I thought we employees could talk about Christian amongst ourselves. Taylor and Mrs. Jones had, right?

But Sawyer looks absolutely horrified. I can hear his breath hiss in and he turns aggressively in his seat to stare at me. I flinch back involuntarily, scrambling for the door handle and run for my apartment door. He's right out after me, but when I look back he's simply standing by the SUV, head down like he's looking at the road. Thank God! I get inside, lock the door and run to my room and the closet. I'd found time to take the lock off Kate's bedroom door yesterday and put it on my closet door. Refusing to feel like an idiot I dive inside among my six pair of shoes, slam the door and lock it. The screaming and tears take time to slow down, then I just focus on breathing without feeling like my head is going to blow off. I think I feel asleep in there, curled in a small ball, shaking like a leaf in a monsoon. But my body has calmed down with my emotions when I awake.

Crawling out of the closet on hands and knees, I find Luke Sawyer sitting on my bed. Darkness has arrived and he's got my bedside lamp on. We stare at each other and I have to admit I almost scuttled back into the closet. But I get a good hold on my bravery and just sit on my knees and return his stare. I feel guilty for saying anything before, not because I signed a NDA – fuck that – but because I've shared something about Christian that will give this employee a bad opinion of him. So I dive right in. "I asked him to hurt me." I did not ask him to beat me with a belt. "He thought I was agreeing to how bad," I guess he did tell me ahead of time, "but I over-estimated what I could take." Who would ever think six times with a belt could be so bad? Really! "Please don't tell anyone I told you." I beg that part. If Christian finds out he'd probably beat me to death. Am I joking … or a little serious.

Sawyer may be thinking the same thing because he agrees to keep his mouth shut. He offers me a hand up, but I'm still too skittish to stand contact when it can be avoided. We dance around, I never ask how he got in when I locked the door, but eventually he lets me convince him to stay inside and he camps out on the couch. He refuses to eat supper with me, but the plate I put on the coffee table in front of him eventually gets cleaned off, and he accepts the glass of orange juice then a cup of coffee.

At ten until eight there's a knock at the door and Sawyer explains that is his replacement and goes to let the woman in. Sawyer introduces Ms. Prescott, explains she will be with me until eight o'clock in the morning. Ms. Prescott looks like she can whip both Taylor and Sawyer with her hands tied behind her back, a real hard as nails black woman maybe about fifty or so in age. Immediately I feel safe. In fact, it's the first time I've felt safe since Friday in the Red Room of Pain. Sawyer takes her off for a private report and I get ready for bed. The pain pills are making me sleepy and I'm ready for an early night.

After Sawyer leaves, I listen patiently as Ms. Prescott, Cottie, reviews some ground rules with me and gives me instructions on what to do for certain circumstances. It is amazing to me that these people are even here, especially since I ran as hard and fast as I could from Christian's apartment. All right, my conscience and my Inner Goddess force me to be honest; I bawled and held back and prayed that Christian would say he loved me or at least fucking APOLOGIZE for beating me with a belt and then let him escort me to the elevator when he did neither. So why did I have security people? Cottie wouldn't answer me, same as Sawyer. Maybe this was a Sub feature? It came with the whole end of contract package: phone, computer, car, money, clothes, jewelry … security.

As I lay with Kate's laptop beside me on my bed, I try to guess how long these people will be here with me. Then I read that my reaction of shock, hatred and fear are normal for a submissive that has been pushed in her "limits". Were they kidding me? But I keep reading, do a couple of cross references. No, apparently this BDSM crap comes with all kinds of emotional upheavals. After a "discipline", "punishment", "role", the names for it go on and on … but after getting beaten or "pushing" beyond my "normal" limits, it can be quite common for the submissive to wish to withdraw from her Dom, feel a wide range of negative and fearful emotions, cry, scream, threaten and even attack the Dom … and then everything is supposed to go back to the usual. The Sub is grateful for the experience and her Dom's willingness to take her into this realm, and the Dom expresses his pleasure at having been the MOTHER FUCKING GOD-COMPLEX BASTARD WHO DELIVERED HER TO THIS NIRVANA!

Did Christian really think he was just dealing with a submissive who needed a little more than a couple of hours – up to twenty-four per the reading material – and I'd be back all happy and thanking him, ready for more? These people were so goofy. I finally fall asleep as the cream and medicine takes the pain to an ache.

It isn't until I wake up around seven – God I hate mornings – that I realize I had flowers yesterday from Christian. Apparently they came while I was having my hysterics in the closet and Sawyer signed for them. Then he hid them in Kate's room and decided it would be better to give them to me this morning. Cottie gave them to me, looking none the worse for having spent the night doing whatever she did.

It's a box of white roses and black lilies. I stick them in a vase, cutting the stems to varying lengths, then get up the courage to read the card.

_Ana, please call me. Christian._

Yeah, right. I get ready for work, borrowing from Kate a strapless dress of yellow and purple organza that flirts around my knees. I have a deeper purple summer-weight sweater that brings the whole thing to a nice level of professional chick that I took note of yesterday. Kate and I have different figures, but I can use her clothes if I pick out the right things. Something like this dress, it ties in the back so it won't fall off and just fluffs the extra material. Kate's five inches taller than me, so the dress would be shorter on her. No problem for me. I have a couple packages of thigh high hose and open sheer nude ones. The other package I stuff in the matching purse Kate has for the dress. I strap on a pair of high heels – it is sooo great to have a roommate who I can borrow all her clothing except for panties, bras and hose – then do my makeup – mascara and lip gloss. My hair is carefully put into a bun and I add simple small hoop earrings.

That's it. I can see myself with this style for a long time. I liked that I didn't have to wear a suit, although I judge about half the women at SIP did. It wasn't my style. What can I say? If it's not jeans or shorts, I'd rather be in a dress than the separates that kept scooching around in all the wrong places.

I'm eating my peanut butter toast and sipping hot tea – Cottie refused anything but I made her coffee and she's grudgingly drinking it on the couch – when it occurs to me that I'm moving and sitting without severe pain and I haven't cried or been screaming for the past hour since I got up. Wow. I had noticed that my ass looked a little greener and less black in the bathroom mirror, and the cuts were healing up. So it looked like I was going to survive.

And maybe telling Sawyer had helped. I guess I'd thought I'd take that story to my death. I hadn't even really told Sawyer what happened, but I'd gotten a chance to say something had happened. And if I'd chosen to go into detail, I sensed my security guard would have listened. My conscience was in her psychiatrist mode: oval wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, sitting in a wing-back chair. She raised an eyebrow and indicated I should go on with my thoughts. And maybe reading about how my feelings were normal and acceptable had helped. OK, the whole getting beaten had been a disaster, but obviously it wasn't a sin against nature and God. Not if there was information on the internet!

I get to work via Sawyer, that's what he wants me to call him. Before I get out of the black SUV he hands me a box of chocolates from Seattle Chocolates and informs me they are from Mr. Grey. I roll my eyes, get out and head in to work. First thing I do is hand the box to Morgan Zimmerman. He is thrilled and I'm pretty sure I just made a new friend. He explains that I can have drinks at my desk, but they have to be in the special spill-proof bottles with the SIP logo. One is already on my desk, he hurries to tell me, then answers a call. So I search the kitchen and find some Lipton's tea bags, make myself a nice spill proof container full, and settle at my desk.

The man next to me, JT Ally, shows me how to order up a manuscript in the queues, either hardcopy or internet, and I get started. At this stage, all I have to do is read the book and give it a yea or nay with an explanation. Until Mr. Laumber says otherwise, every manuscript I read and judge will be checked on by a senior assistant. Frankly, it scares me that I'll be making judgments on someone's writing and if they get a chance to be published, but this is what I put in four years of college to do … so I get busy.

It is almost the mandatory break time when Alison calls me and, giggling, tells me that "whoever he is, this ex-boyfriend must really be a sweetie" and there are more flowers downstairs. She delivers them herself and this time they are white Lilies and black roses. Still extra-large and taking up the entire front of my desk. I take yesterday's offering and put it in the kitchen area, then head to the ladies room with the card. Just in case I have hysterics I won't be putting on a show for everyone.

With shaking hands I open the envelope.

_Ana, I would like to see you. Christian_

Yep. He's a Dom. Expects me to get over it and come to heel.

Well, it's not happening. I may be getting over the shock and God knows I never hated him – hadn't I been begging for his love in my submissive room and bed just a few hours afterwards? – but this woman wasn't about to ever face his idea of bedroom games again.

It's raining, it is Seattle's favorite pastime, so I decided to lunch at my desk, noticing quite a few others also eat there. Morgan stops by and we chat. He thanks me for the chocolates again and I thank him for being so nice to me yesterday, then he pulls up a chair from someone else's desk and proceeds to tell me about himself. He's explaining how a boy from Fort Worth, Texas ended up in Seattle when I hear some feminine murmurs of appreciation. Someone whistles low and I can't help but look away from Morgan toward the elevators.

Jason Taylor is standing there, gazing solemnly at me. He's tall and built and pretty good looking in that black suit, so I understand why the women and some of the men in the area who are at their desks are staring. I excuse myself to Morgan and hurry over, only managing to lose one of Kate's shoes once and banging my hip on a desk before I get to him. He looks at me like he's trying hard not to laugh and I have to roll my eyes and flash him a smile in understanding. I'm clumsy, it's a fact of life.

"Taylor?" I hope Christian isn't somewhere in the building or something. I might be getting my head screwed back on, but I could lose it again if I have to see him.

"Mr. Grey would like you to accept this, Miss Steele." Once more he offers a jewelry case. This one is white with the word Cartier boldly scrawled on top.

I take it, open the lid. It's a red stone necklace. This one actually _looks_ like a collar. I snap the lid closed and hand it back to Taylor. At least he takes it this time, sliding the case into his pocket himself. "What, no leash," I ask sweetly. Collars and leashes. They go together, right? I'm impressed that I got a half-way decent response off today. A great improvement on yesterday.

Then he has to go and ruin it all by reaching one of those large hands out toward me, and without any reason I can determine other than the fact that I know he knows what Christian did to me in the Red Room of Pain, I jump back with a shriek I can't completely cover with the hand that goes over my mouth. Everyone freezes. It feels like ten minutes but probably was only one where this tableau is pictured … then I hear Morgan stating to my left, "Call security."

That breaks it and I turn to him. "No. I'm fine. Goodbye, Taylor." And I head off to the ladies room at a restrained gallop.

To my shock, Morgan follows me in. Then he glares at everyone else wanting to see what is going on and they back out quickly. He's really quite respected, I guess. After I get done crying, I keep my explanation to the fact that no, Taylor isn't my boyfriend or ex-boyfriend, but he does work for my ex-boyfriend and is trying to get me to take a gift I don't want from said ex. Morgan must have good eyes because he identified that I was offered a ruby choker from Cartier. That or he's got a direct line to the surveillance cameras over the elevators. So he's impressed and indignant for me at the same time.

Unfortunately my little lack of self-control earns me a trip to Personnel where the head HR woman and the Chief of Security for SIP question me. I give them the same explanation as Morgan and apologize for causing a disturbance. I am really worried that they'll fire me and I'll be unemployed, then destitute if I can't find another job. Then Mr. Laumber comes in and the three of them have a confab. Then Morgan comes in and he goes into the glass office with them. I put my eyes on my bare knees and pray for an earthquake and the ground to open and swallow me. But just when I'm on the verge of an anxiety attack, Mr. Laumber comes out with Morgan and they ask if I'd feel better about continuing my training with his division alongside of Mr. Zimmerman.

I'm not sure what happened, but I make all the right noises I think, and we all troop upstairs. Morgan's black table is shifted and a swath of desks are all shifted around until it looks like a straight line of manuscript readers from the left of Morgan's table back to the windows. I'm placed at the first desk, a mere ten feet away from Morgan. And that is that.

The rest of the week goes along smoothly, if strangely. Sawyer takes me to and from work. Every morning he hands me a box of chocolates and I turn them over to Morgan as soon as I'm off the elevator at the eighth floor. At noon Taylor shows up, with SIP Security at his back – which he superiorly ignores – and he offers me increasingly more expensive jewelry. Morgan tells me the estimate on price, I think he looks it up on the Cartier website. I refuse and Taylor, without any further attempts to touch me, leaves. I get flowers every day, both at work and at home. Christian is requesting that I see him, speak to him, call him, let him call me, respond to his emails and texts – he's gotten my old cell phone number, or read one of the letters he is having Cottie hand deliver every evening. I ignore the flower cards with these messages, don't answer my phone if I don't know the number or when it is his personal Blackberry number, delete all his emails and texts without opening them, and tell Cottie where he can stuff his letters and refuse to even touch the envelopes.

Oh, between all the dramas, I learn how to submit reports on the manuscripts I am reading and Mr. Laumber is thrilled with my work.

Did I somehow agree to all this when I signed that NDA I never fully looked at? Was it in the verbal contract when I told Christian I wanted to try and be his Sub? Does he think this is some role play game? I desperately check the BDSM websites, even submit questions in carefully worded style to some of these sites, but don't get any firm answers.

By Friday I am exhausted and ready to lick my wounds, so to speak. Sawyer has a quiet word with me about the possibility of a certain _gentleman_ coming over to ask me out on a date. I tell him that if Mr. Grey comes over, he can freaking knock all night long, but he's not stepping a foot inside my home and I'm not seeing him. AND HE AIN'T NO GENTLEMAN! I guess he does try, there's certainly knocking and some Sawyer / Christian yelling outside interaction, but I honestly am so fatigued mentally and emotionally that it doesn't impact me all that much. I sleep, shower, get the apartment settled from the move, eat and feed Sawyer, Cottie and a new guy named Ryan, and veg out in my home. I think it was what I needed because by Monday I am refreshed and feel like it's going to be a good day.

Could I have be any more wrong …


	5. Chapter 5

Monday morning I dressed in a breezy green silk dress with a wide bronze belt, matching shoes and bag. Kate did have great clothes. Her father sent her four times a year to Rodeo Drive with two assistants and a credit card. That was before he sent her directly to New York to order whatever she wanted from fashion week, seasonally. She knew I preferred jeans, after all a college student who worked at a hardware store every evening and weekend didn't need fancy duds, but she'd offered her closets freely and in a true spirit of sisterhood. This meant that I didn't need to feel guilty about borrowing her outfits now. She had always been the best dressed girl on campus. I don't know what her plan was for when she got back from her family vacation / graduation trip to Barbados and started her job at the Seattle Times Press, but I suspected she'd be best dressed there as well.

I was carefully keeping my hair back in a bun. It was going to be my hair look. Ana Steele wasn't the wild sexual creature I had been about to experiment with; that Ana left her hair down, unless Christian braided it. This Ana Steele had a slightly side part and her hair did not tempt anyone's fingers, nor would it be mussed by kisses and nuzzling, but was a very nice bun. _Get over yourself, bitch_, my Inner Goddess sneered, furious I won't play Christian's games. She was wearing camouflage lingerie and had a machine gun strapped across her back. She actually looked pretty amazing. Her hair was wild and bouncy. It was also tangled in her weapon. My conscience was laughing so hard she fell off her perch on a high horse.

Cottie asked me if I got a headache from how tight my hair was. Then she hurriedly told me it looked nice. I resisted pointing out to her that controlling my hair was about the only challenge I was up to, the only one I wanted to be up to. Besides, I think she's allergic to the houseful of floral funeral arrangements I've got spread out around the apartment. Her eyes are swollen and red, as is her nose, which is also running. I heard her sneezing last night. I offer her some Benadryl, which she refuses, so I leave a packet on the saucer with her coffee cup. Don't ask, don't tell is my present motto when the empty packet hits the trashcan discretely wrapped in a tissue.

I'm early to work. Sawyer gives me another box of chocolates and tells me to have a nice day. I say the same to him and hop out. My ass is fading to yellows, browns and green, I only need half a pain pill, and I can walk and sit without feeling ill. Charlie is waiting for me at the front doors and we hug then chat about our new jobs. Surprisingly my "situation" has not gotten out becoming common SIP gossip. Which amazes me – another Christian Grey paranoia gone wild example of how wrong he is about people sometimes? My division has really proved to be very nice. And they're enjoying all the free flowers. So Charlie and I arrange to have dinner out on Thursday after work. We get paid every Wednesday – how cool is that? – so we'll have time to cash our checks and be rich and ready to eat and drink well!

Morgan is over the moon at what could possibly be another week of chocolates. Then he confides that there's been a secret he's not told me about. From his grin I can tell he thinks it's something juicy. I think he'd juice his pants if I told him my secret. He tells me that SIP has been bought out and the new bosses are rumored to be starting management meetings today. He can tell I have no idea what all that means so tells me to plan and sit with him at break time and begs me to keep my lips sealed. I promise, all the while thinking that I could probably cobble up a NDA from memory. Then I get my spill-proof tea – I brought my own tea bags from home – and get to work.

I am greatly enjoying my work. I actually get paid to read someone's story and write a critique. I can't actually believe that they are paying me for this. Even the crappy manuscripts are still someone's baby and I try to couch my refusal as nicely as possible with plenty of encouragement toward how I see they could improve. The general exodus of people tells me it is break time and I head the ten feet to Morgan's executive table. He hasn't made it through all the chocolates yet, but I know there'll be an empty box in the trash before noon. I'm probably ruining his health, but remind myself he's an adult and can make his own chocolate choices.

So the story is that SIP has been sold and it's a hush hush secret, although I can't really understand why. Do stock holders and writers give a darn whose name is on the door as long as they are making money? Anyway, the acting CEO is Mr. Roach and he's going to stay to make the transition smooth. But part of that is the new owners will evaluate each division and make changes and cuts where they want. "In other words they have to look good or they and their staff are out," I ask Morgan softly, stealing one of his French fries that he had delivered up from one of the street vendors that moved between the office buildings, frying and dishing up a variety of foods to hungry office dwellers.

"Pretty much. They want each VP and two of his people in the top floor conference room at eleven. Catered lunch." Morgan was all about the side benefits. "Then they start introducing themselves, what all they do, and justifying themselves and all of us." His eyes shone brightly with a thought. "Hey, Ana. You want to come? I'll go with Mr. Laumber as his administrative assistant, and you can come along as the ballast. The second person is just for a show of support, anyway. No one will ask you anything."

Carter Laumber strode out of his office just then, tall, skinny and even serious his mouth quirked ever so slightly in amusement. He looked down at me and Morgan, taking in the spill-proof cups and mess of French fries and box of chocolates on the table. Casually, he reached for a chocolate, added a French fry, and chewed. We waited for him to speak. "I heard that last part. Good idea, Mr. Zimmerman. Ms. Steele and I can find things to be amused about while everyone else is oh so serious." He looked at me for a response.

I can't help but grin. I've found a soul mate in Carter Laumber when it comes to seeing off the wall humor in things. So we all part ways to make sure we look good enough to meet the new bigwigs then meet up in front of Morgan's black table at ten before eleven. Mr. Laumber has three mini laptops, explains these will help us communicate with each other during the meeting, which is actually slated to last the entire week. Immediately I regret agreeing to this, but it's too late.

The top floor is where the administration and CEO are housed. I'm not sure what and who all is placed on the top, but it's got nicer carpet I notice as we get out. Someone has made beautiful carpet designed of classic books and each five by five square is a book or author. It is so fantastic that I make no effort to watch where I am going, just following along beside Morgan and after Mr. Laumber as I gawk at the carpet.

Bang! I was on my way to the floor when whoever I've ran into gets strong hands around me. The immediate _ZAP FIZZ_ through my body is so familiar and alluring that I know it's Christian before he's got me pressed up against his hard chest. My Conscience performs an amazing self-defense move, kneeing him in the balls and cock. My Inner Goddess takes her Uzi and shoots my Conscience. I just press against him for a moment, remembering the maybe one day of happiness we had together all total, then I press my hands to his chest so he'll let me go.

I've got help, in case he doesn't move fast enough. I think Mr. Laumber, Morgan and two of the ladies I recognize from HR, the Chief of Security, and, there he is, Taylor, are all expecting me to start screaming and have a meltdown. Only Taylor would know why. The others all just think I'm nuts over people touching me. But in their hurry to get me away from the new boss, everyone has their hands on me, pulling me away and patting at me reassuringly.

Christian snarls and everyone backs off. I get my brain back from wherever it went and look up at him. Those eyes. Those peculiar grey eyes that are alternately hot and cold, they meet mine for one long moment, then drop to look down my body. His eyebrows draw together and those luscious pouty lips straighten into a hard line. "You're too fucking skinny," he snarls at me.

Since he just finished snarling at everyone else, I feel for the first time … undominated. It hits me, just now, finally, that all his temper and extremes isn't just with me. It's everyone. And hard on the heels of that truth, I realize that it's because he's mad at everyone in the world – not just Anastasia Steele. Without time to delve into all of this, I simply put a grin on my face and say, "Sue me." I heard Mr. Laumber chuckle, mostly under his breath, and Taylor's snort of amusement quickly covered with a cough. Then I skitter away and take the first seat I find. Luckily I'm in the right area. All the assistants are placed at the end of the gigantic conference room table where I've sat. The VPs and other important people are in the front.

Taking a deep breath, knowing my face is blushing, I look up and see Christian taking his place at the head. Our eyes meet and his are cold, hiding his emotions. I breathe out a sign of relief, focus on my lap where I've put my mini-laptop. I am in Conference Share with Mr. Laumber and Morgan. Mr. Laumber says I get a "6" from the Russian judge for my fast comeback. Morgan says the Korean judge only gave me a "4.5" because I didn't stick the landing. And that makes me grin.

The next two hours go by quickly. Considering I know nothing about business, English Lit major, remember? – I can tell Christian is indeed very good at Mergers and Acquisitions. He has discs and huge books with the new expectations and rules and regulations, policies and procedures. Departments like HR, Security, Maintenance, and Payroll all get stacks, like three feet high, of their new job duties. Christian wants them to implement all this immediately. I thought for a minute the one blonde woman from HR was going to stroke out, but she makes a recovery enough to flirt when Christian suggests she needs a glass of water. Her admin immediately shot to his feet and rushed to the sideboard to get his boss a glass as ordered, and delivers it.

Now it's lunch time. Morgan, obviously a genius at his job, explains to me that we serve the bosses first, then depart for another conference room where we all can eat and relax. Apparently there are secret conversations that all of us lower creatures are better off not hearing. He says he'll get Mr. Laumber's lunch, as he knows what the VP likes, and scurries to the buffet. I hesitate, realizing that Christian doesn't have anyone here with him except Taylor, and no doubt several other security guys around.

All right, I'm an idiot. I can't help it. The man beat me, not raped me. And I did ask for it … I guess. So I troop over to the buffet and fix him a plate. Amazing what a very brief relationship can tell you about a man. I choose the food I know he's likely to enjoy: two halves of steak hoagie on French bread, vinegar chips, two dill pickles. I put the mustard and mayonnaise on the side. I know he can eat twice what I've plated up for him, but I also know with his weird food compulsions that its better this way. He can get something different and seconds as he likes. After all, this is just for show.

He likes respect, I remember. Wasn't that what beating me black and bloody was about? He thought it would make yet one more little brown haired Sub respect him while he got off on it. I shake the thought off.

Christian is having a deep conversation with Mr. Roach and looks in disbelief as I move his MacBook system away and slide the plate in front of him, seconds later laying napkins and silverware – like he was going to use the utensils but it seemed like part of the right thing to do – neatly beside his plate. I know he is watching me as I return to the buffet and pick up a coffee, one cream, one sugar, and a large glass of ice water. Praying I don't fall on my face, or trip and spill hot coffee on one of the VPs or my fellow assistants as we all serve lunch, I cross the floor under Christian's bold grey stare and THANK GOD put his unspilled drinks on the table north of his plate.

He utters a very very quiet, "Thank you, Anastasia."

Not looking at him again I make my escape.


	6. Chapter 6

I get high marks from almost all the other admins and assistants, even though none of them know me, for serving Christian lunch. None of them had thought about it and most admitted that from the way he had been snarling and snapping that they really had no desire to get that close to him. It was a real surprise to me, because I had spent all of our time together picturing how every woman, and gay men, was able, ready and willing to throw themselves at Mr. Christian Grey. Because of his power, wealth, social status … and because of his ungodly good looks.

I leaned toward Morgan as we stood sipping orange juice and looking down at the busy streets below us. "So everyone thinks Mr. Grey is scary. Not just me?"

He blinks those velvet blue eyes at me and nods. "I couldn't believe the way you snapped back at him when he accused you of being too skinny." He looked down at his own portly body housed in an excellently cut suit that did its best to take off twenty pounds. "I don't think I've ever heard someone say that before."

"Really? Because I've heard it all my life," I whisper back, eyeing the room. "Do you need to be talking to some of these people? You know, schmoozing?"

He laughs, a rather nasty little sound. "Ana, I love you. Honey, I'm the one that they want to schmooze with."

I hold back the disbelieving_ Really?_ and smile at him like I'm impressed. Then I catch sight of Ryan in the doorway and my improved mood stalls out and dies. I'd like to make more of an automobile analogy, but cars have never been my thing. Hardware store sarcasm I'm good at. Har day har ware. See? So I excuse myself and act like I need the bathroom and head out.

Ryan is a smart guy and I'm just getting to know him. He was my Saturday / Sunday overnight guy and since I'd spent most of that time in bed sleeping, having nightmares, crying, we hadn't gotten to know each other more than, for me, by sight. But he leads me down several hallways until I'm lost and we're suddenly in a little sitting area with Taylor standing there impassive and mountain-sized as usual. He digs in the pocket of his black jacket and says, "Mr. Grey would like you to have this," and holds out another jewelry box.

I sigh, take it and open it. Without Morgan looking over my shoulder I have no idea exactly what the black stones are, but I recognize diamonds between them, set in the now standard delicate gray metal with matching chain. I look over at Ryan, then up into Taylor's calm dark eyes. "You know, I could probably do a pair of small hoop earrings. Like these." I hand him back the box and touch my earlobe where an exact sample swings. "Wal-Mart sells them for $4.99."

Taylor looks pained and Ryan is looking at the ceiling. "And if Mr. Grey doesn't like that idea, tough." Oh, great response. Shaking her head in sorrow at my lack of eloquence my Conscience sweeps her hand over a library full of books that I've read, selects one and throws it at me. Walking to a small writing desk, I find it supplied. This must be one of those fancy little meeting 'areas' that come supplied. I take out a pen and paper and write, "If I do not believe, I shall not be convinced by reason." It is a quote from The Life and Letters of Eras. Then I add, "OR BY GIFTS." I read it out loud, then fold it four times and hand it to Taylor with a flourish.

He looks down at it for a minute, then back to me. I'm not at all sure what his look is trying to convey, but I think Taylor may be … happy. I shake my head to clear it and turn back to Ryan. He's looking pleased as well. Only men would think this note is a good thing. I certainly hope Christian has more brains. Of course, this is the man who beat me with a belt and apparently now thinks that I'm beholden to him for the rest of the three month contract that I'm still not sure I verbally contracted to. I'm pretty sure I said I would "try" and be his Sub, not that I would.

Ryan leads me back just in time for us all to return to the giant conference table and sit down. Morgan sends me a Conference Sharing message, asking me where I went. I respond that I had to do my lunchtime jewelry refusal and he asks me what I was offered. I describe it and he spends some time working on his mini-laptop, then sends over a picture to mine. I smile slightly and nod at him and he sends me the information that the necklace cost a cool one million dollars. Then he asks if my ex works at Cartier. I just shake my head, roll my eyes at him, then refocus on what is being talked about at the head of the table.

At break time I start to fetch Christian a coffee but Morgan holds me back just slightly and then gives me a nod. I look and see three women with cups of coffee heading his way as he confabs once more with Mr. Roach. Mr. Laumber wanders up to us and Morgan gives him the cup he has prepared. He starts to speak then gets called to where a small group of the upper echelon is talking and strides over after he gives me a friendly wink and we share a smile. I plan to have a quick cup of tea and nibble on an apple after I use the bathroom and am just asking Morgan where the closest facilities are when I hear Christian roaring. The whole room turns to look.

Christian is shouting and Mr. Roach and several VPs are trying to mop at him with handkerchiefs. I can already guess what happened and my chest hurts with agony at the possibility. Sure enough when the bodies shift I can see that he's got coffee spilled all the way down him from shoulder to waist. I know that this had to scare Christian, with his phobias of being touched in any form on his chest and back, the abuse that has left him physically and emotionally so terribly scarred, and he is in agony. It's made worse with everyone trying to brush at him. They think he's been burned by the coffee. I know better. He's being burned by memories.

Taylor and Ryan charge through and get people away from him. Like I'm seeing myself in a dream I see … me telling Morgan to get the elevator then I move to Christian and take his arm. He's still swearing and shouting but he clamps my arm to his side and I can see the suffering in his eyes. I look beyond the anger and see his pain. My Conscience falls to the ground, crying and beating her fists on the hard unyielding surface. She is begging me, begging me, just to walk away. All I have to do is pull free and stay strong. But I can't. I've never passed by a living thing that is in pain, not once. Ray endured through every stray, injured, lost and homeless animal that I found. He knew that I could no more let something suffer than I could cut off my own arm. I really am not sure he'd approve of me seeing Christian in the same light, but he'd endure it if he was here.

I hear the ding of the elevator and I drag Christian out of the conference room and into the silver cage along with Taylor and Ryan in tow. "Car," I ask Taylor calmly, wrapping my arms around Christian even as he continues to scream such Mr. Grey standard phrases as "Fucking bitch!" "Stupid bitch!" "Goddamn mother fucking bitch!" While he's yelling, I draw his head down to my shoulder and stroke his hair. His arms are clamped around me now and I suspect I'll have bruises along my ribs. Good thing I've got pain pills and cream.

Taylor responds in between the cursing and lets me know Sawyer will meet us at the door with a vehicle. Christian's rant is slowing down and I feel him shudder before he falls silent, gasping in air. Then he nuzzles at my throat. I'm stuck between wanting to run screaming and feeling my pelvic muscles tightening in lust. This is worse than being stuck between a rock and a hard place. More like stuck between the frying pan and the fire.

"Anastasia." My name is a low sound. I wonder if he really whimpered it or if he's just gone hoarse from all the shouting.

The doors ding open and I find out that Taylor has manipulated the elevator to the garage level and sure enough Sawyer is there with a black SUV. Christian has recovered enough that he half carries me to the vehicle as Ryan and Taylor herd us toward it. Taylor opens the back door and I step back and urge Christian inside. Then I amazingly keep stepping back, thanking any and all gods that are in the universe that Sawyer had parked a bare ten feet away from the elevator. It hasn't had time to close. I step into it and push whatever button my index finger comes in contact with, triggering the doors to close.

The last thing I see is the sheer horror on every one of those male faces.


	7. Chapter 7

I think I am shell-shocked. I, Anastasia Rose Steele, have just done a sensible thing. Me. I did not get into a black SUV with my ex - whatever Christian was – and end up back at his penthouse apartment where he would no doubt have fucked me hard then requested I continue on as his Submissive fuck buddy. Certainly not as his true love or lover. And God help me, I probably would have agreed. And tried it. Until I let him beat me again.

I keep breathing in through my nose as the elevator stops on the sixth floor. Several people get on and I move to the back wall. The doors open again and I'm on the eighth floor, so I squeeze past and get out. Morgan and Mr. Laumber pounce on me and lead me to Mr. Laumber's office. I'm pressed into a comfortable seat which my butt does not appreciate, and Morgan hurriedly gets me a glass of water. After I've drank they both sit and look at me expectantly.

The stray thought hits me that they should have put two and two together by now. I mean Taylor was here every day last week and he's not the kind of guy you really forget, unless he's in that "I'm invisible" mode, and he was obviously working for Christian. And surely SIP Security has already figured this out and notified Mr. Laumber. And really, if the company now belongs to Christian, it's his Security, isn't it? But then I realize that not one person in the world would ever think that a man like Christian would be interested in plain little Ana Steele. So why would they put it together? Most people seem to think that Christian's gay, and those who don't would picture him with a supermodel or actress, no an English Lit major … um, graduate.

Feeling confused and overwhelmed, hoping I made a really good and brave decision in the basement parking garage, I put my face in my hands and burst into tears. Mr. Laumber and Morgan make all the right noises and press a clean handkerchief into my hands. It takes a while but I am finally cried out. I should be cried out permanently. Still, it seems like that was what I needed as a feeling of calm and pride finally settle around me. Then I realize it's just both my Conscious and Inner Goddess sharing a dubbie, both of them quite worn out from my inner battles. What I'm feeling is the smoky haze their little smoke-fest has induced.

Mr. Laumber obviously doesn't want to gossip and he nudges Morgan. Morgan doesn't mind in the least. He is sitting beside me and now he takes both of my hands and asks me very seriously, "Ana, the man with Mr. Grey. Mr. Ryan. Is he your ex-boyfriend?"

I choke. Glance up at him, then my boss. "No." Why hadn't I read through all those papers Christian had wanted me to sign? I don't even know if I can admit I had been seeing Christian. "I don't want to talk about it," I plead. "Please."

Mr. Laumber immediately backs off. "That's fine, Miss Steele. But can you tell us what happened with Mr. Grey?"

Well, you see my roommate Kate had the flu so I had to do a school newspaper interview for her … ohh, they meant fifteen minutes ago. I mentally slapped myself, straightened my spine and my posture. With a last wipe to my eyes, I offer a tired smile to both men. "I don't think he was burned, but I think having coffee spilled on him wasn't something that's ever happened to Mr. Grey before. His security people met him in the parking garage and I made sure he got into the vehicle. He'd stopped shouting and swearing by then." He was chewing on my neck and had a hard on that made me want to drop to my knees and go wild on it. "He didn't say anything."

Mr. Laumber nodded. "Well, you did very well, Miss Steele. Very well. While we all stood around not knowing what to do, you handled the situation just fine. I think we've all had enough excitement for the day. Both of you head home for the day. You've earned an extra hour off early." He patted us both on the shoulder and urged us out.

Grateful, I'd had enough drama, stress and heartache for the day, I grabbed my purse and left with Morgan. Always the gentleman, Morgan offered to drive me home and I let him. Once inside I stripped off Kate's dress and shoes and crawled into bed. I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.

When I woke up it was around four in the morning and I was done sleeping. I dressed in sweat pants and long-sleeved t-shirt, ballet-style soft shoes, and went out into the living room. Cottie was sitting on the couch and looked glad to see me – it has to be lonely sitting here watching out for me as I sleep. I greeted her quietly. Nighttime always makes me speak softly; I think it does for a lot of people. I head to the back door. Behind our apartment is a small yard and garden combo. The area is fenced in and probably eight hundred square feet. Kate's dad has made sure the fence was top line so unless someone is planning to come over barbed wire placed over a ten foot high barrier, we're safe.

This is the first time since I left Escala with my heart broke and my tail beat that I have felt like performing the soothing exercises of T'ai chi ch'uan. Ray, being past Army and Special Forces, had been trained in jujitsu. But he said, and I agreed then and now, that my need to know how to kill a man with my feet alone wasn't going to serve a purpose. When my pet cat had to be put down I cried for a week straight. Actually, remembering that grief helps me deal with what I'm feeling now. I had thought when I had to see poor Bootsie put to sleep, held her and then Ray helped me bury her, that I'd never get over it, never stop crying and wanting to hold my cat. But I had eventually moved on, and replaced Bootsie with Pasta. What can I say? That darn cat liked spaghetti. My point to myself is that Ray taught me Tai chi because he wanted me to stop falling over my own two feet and he knew the chances of me ever wanting to hurt anything living through martial arts was zip so his specialty was out.

But anyway, I woke up and my ass wasn't a big problem and I'd had enough sleep. So I head outside in the stillness of a few hours before dawn and the coldness of Seattle without sunshine, Cottie curiously and protectively in the yard with me. I use T'ai chi ch'uan as an alternative to exercise. It helps me to focus my mind solely on the movements of the form to bring about a state of mental calm and clarity. The physical techniques involve the use of leverage through the joints based on coordination and relaxation rather than muscular tension, in order to neutralize, yield, or initiate attacks. The slow, repetitive work involved in the process of learning how that leverage is generated gently and measurably increases, opens the internal circulation of breath, body heat, blood, lymph, peristalsis, etc. What can I say? When Ray decided to teach me, he made sure I really learned about it. And overall it did help. I can usually walk across a room without taking a header into the furniture and in cases of emergency I can wash a car with the classic Karate Kid "wax on, wax off" motions. Ha ha. Wax. Get it? A hardware joke. Or was that a car joke?

After an hour I feel better and use all that calm and clarity to think about my situation. For the first time I try to see the positives of that Friday night in Christian's Red Room of Pain. I had put my heart out there. That was brave. Not everyone was as willing to be shot down as me. And I had risked telling Christian that I was in love with him. For a girl who had last said those words – not counting Kate and Ray – to an injured ferret, I think it shows a lot of guts.

I had also let Christian beat me. It hadn't been a spanking, hand or not, it hadn't been a whipping. I don't think it even qualified as a punishment. He had beat me with a belt, using strength in his body that was muscled and developed through workouts with Claude and probably with Taylor. I had read up enough on some of those BDSM websites that I knew he'd gone overboard. He'd lost it. That hadn't been a "scene" and it hadn't been a "role." My Christian had taken a back seat to whatever demon was inside. Fifty Shades Evil had been the one giving me measured and cruel strikes. I shuddered and my ass, back and legs shivered in remembered pain. But by God I had taken it. I had laid myself over that fucking stool and I hadn't moved. I didn't stop the beating, I didn't scream out some stupid safeword and I didn't beg for mercy, or at least for him to stop.

I'd watched a video where after her beating the Dom had made the poor girl kiss the belt, kiss his fist, then suck him dry. If I hadn't run screaming – I hope I'd shown just a little more restraint than that, although probably not – to my Sub room, I have no doubt that was what would have happened next.

You know, I had shown a lot of courage. I took my beating, learned my lesson and I was moving on.

It had been hard, but with divine intervention I had proved my strength yesterday when I'd gotten back into that elevator. Good job, Ana!

I took a fast shower and got ready for the day. Then made Cottie and Sawyer breakfast, serving it as shift change arrived. They were both uncomfortable with how I was treating them, but I ignored their protests. Christian may have me on the Sub Special Treatment Routine, but I was choosing how I dealt with it. And as far as I was concerned he had supplied me with large Doberman Pinschers that needed fed, watered and walked. What can I say? I'm an animal lover.

I make it to SIP in good time and Charlie, Alison and I have time for a latte and chat. Everyone had heard about Christian having coffee spilled on him and having a fit. We all agree it was over the top behavior – I was the only one of us three to have seen it, but the rumor mill had gone viral over the incident – but since he has the reputation for being an angry bastard, they don't question it. For the first time I begin to realize that hidden away at college, focused on books not gossip and entertainment magazines, I had not conceptualized what Mr. Grey was to the world. He had more money than anyone could comprehend, he was driven to succeed in business, and he was so private in his personal life that it drove the media crazy wanting to get the down and dirty. He was famous and kind of like a rock star in the business world. People expected and accepted his behaviors.

I know I'd only met his mother once, but Grace T-Grey had seemed sensible. How had she let him develop into this egomaniac with behavior control problems? She must not have believed in spanking.

The thought makes me giggle. Unfortunately, I'm now in the executive giant conference room and it seems to echo, making people stop and stare at me. Morgan, ever the consummate admin, leans over slightly like he's the one who said something to amuse me – another great rescue. I still haven't figured if he likes guys or girls, but I'm going to have to find him someone perfect. Anyway, the sudden attention by the entire room makes me blush, bite my lip, and look down at my mini-laptop in embarrassment. The conversation resumes as everyone is partaking of the breakfast buffet, so I relax a little. Conference Sharing blinks and vibrates at me and I open the message.

**Ana. I've missed that sound. Please talk to me. Christian**

I delete it as Morgan zips off to make sure Mr. Laumber has his morning meal. A few seconds later another blink and vibration. This damn Conference Sharing has no way to ignore or delete a message, it just opens to whatever is next in line.

**Stop biting your lip.**

Why is my heart racing? Didn't I just decide at six o'clock this morning that I am better than Christian Grey?

**Aren't you going to get me breakfast?**

Is he kidding me? I look down the table at him, but my gaze is caught by Mr. Roach who is to Christian's left at the table and is giving me the wiggling eyebrows treatment. He's got some impressive ones, white and bushy, and that catches my attention for a moment. All of us assistants and admins had gotten a priority email this morning that NO ONE IS TO OFFER MR. GREY ANY FOOD OR DRINK EXCEPT FOR SELECT INDIVIDUALS, blah, blah, blah. Apparently I am the selected individual for breakfast. I finally get it that Mr. Roach is telling me via eyebrow wiggles, like Morse Code, to get the new owner of SIP his breakfast.

Shutting my MacBook, I go to the buffet and prepare a bowl of Frosted Flakes and take that along with a glass of apple juice around the table and to my ex-Dom. Well, it's a title, I argue with my Inner Goddess, who has covered herself with cream cheese and has spread herself over the breakfast buffet in a most illicit manner. Slut, I comment.

Considering that there is everything from lox and bagels to waffles, as well as the entire meat section, I guess it may look strange that the new owner is getting a kid's meal, but I know what this jumbo-sized kid likes.

I put Christian's cereal and drink on the table, then drop the fork he isn't going to need. Kneeling down to get it, I see the cross-dressing VP of Production and Distribution pause in the doorway. He's got on a short gabardine suit of burgundy on. I duck my head under the table and between the chairs and people's legs see his shoes are matching. Over my head, I hear Christian mutter some uncomplimentary things. That brings me back up on my knees – why am I on my knees in front of my ex-Dom? – and firmly smack the hand he's got resting on the chair arm with the fork. If anyone was watching it looked like an accident and nowhere near as hard as I nail him in reality. "Be nice," I hiss at him, leaning in close so only Christian can hear me. If his mother couldn't teach him manners, I'd give it a try.

He looks abso-fucking-lutely amazed. He can't even get pissed because he is so stunned that I have dared to correct him and hit him with the fork. His jaw drops and those beautiful grey eyes are wide and astonished.

My Conscience does a fancy series of backflips like a gymnast on cocaine, finishes by sticking the landing, arms lifted to the sky. Having won the gold medal I manage to get to my feet and bang my knee on the table, then hobble back to my seat.

The next two hours fly past. Since I have no concern with the details of business I access a manuscript and start reading. These mini computers are really nice. I'll have to ask Morgan to look up the cost. Maybe I could afford one. It's small enough to fit into a purse and the screen is big enough that I can enjoy reading off of it. I'm so involved with the story I'm reading that it is a surprise when the unit blinks and vibrates. I switch over and open the message.

**Ana. Would you please get me a cup of coffee? And since you seem to find it so easy to do so with everyone else, I expect to see you smile at me. Christian **

Mr. Roach suggests the break and I move to get Christian's coffee after I bump into Morgan and lose another of Kate's gorgeous heels under the table. Ryan saves me from embarrassment as he leaves his position leaning against the wall to dive underneath and hands me the shoe. I turn fifty shades of red as I slip it back on under the stares of other assistants. But really, I've been clumsy all my life … this just isn't worth a whimper, although I do manage a cough. Ryan gets back to his place on the wall and Morgan protectively puts his body between us as we walk to the buffet station. I can see how he and Mr. Laumber thought Christian's security was my ex-boyfriend. He is a sweetheart.

I gather some dignity around myself and fix Christian's coffee and take it to him. But I'm not giving him a smile. I turn that on Mr. Roach and Mr. Laumber. Mr. Laumber chuckles and my smile gets sincere. Christian's expression turns thunderous. That pulls my smile back and I head for the door to take my break with the others.

I have been laughed at all my laugh due to my lack of grace. Some nice, a lot not so nice. But maybe Morgan really is a scary power guy, because everyone is pretty nice to me as he stands beside me and grins like a proud parent when other employees come up to say how impressed they are that I was brave enough to get Mr. Grey breakfast and his coffee. I marvel at how far I've come in just a few weeks. From college student to junior assistant in a real publishing house. Dreams come true, baby.

Now if I could find a nice guy …


	8. Chapter 8

By Thursday afternoon I am ready for a dinner and drink after work. Charlie and I's plan has turned into a mini party, as Alison was invited to come along, then I mentioned it to Morgan and he thought a few of the other admins wouldn't mind a good feed after work … things just snowballed. We all had a great time. I feel young, carefree and normal. No strangeness … other than Sawyer hanging around and smoothly shoveling me into a black SUV as we all exit. My friends are stunned but I explain briefly it's just a "thing" and they all quickly figure out it's an ex-boyfriend _thing_ and roll their eyes before we go our separate ways.

I've been texting Kate at least a dozen times a day and she reminds me that Ethan will be coming in to Seattle tomorrow and that he'll be bunked in her second closet – that's the third bedroom – until he finds his own place closer to where he's going to college to be working on his Master's degree in Psychology in September. He'll call me today when he gets into town and come to SIP to get the key I had copied for him.

The last two days in the bigwig meetings as the change over from SIP to GEH happens have gone fairly smoothly. Christian has brought his assistant Ros in and she's excellent. Where Christian glares and growls, she smiles and encourages. I think SIP administration would all fall at her feet if she'd let them … and they weren't all afraid Christian would kick them once they were down. I refuse to respond to his messages to me. He spends most of his time now focused on his personal laptop and Blackberry. But he still demands that only I get him his food and drink. I'm worried this is somehow playing into his brain as my fulfilling my Submissive duties, especially as the flowers, chocolates, and unwanted gifts continue. Morgan is so impressed with it all that he begins to ask me if I'm really over my ex, and he looks at Ryan with interest. Ryan is a professional and he holds up his piece of the wall and ignores interested and speculative looks.

Ethan texts me close to one and says he'll come straight to the apartment after six. He met up with some friends and they're going for a late lunch and drinks. He's left his luggage on the front step and jokingly – or not – asks me to try not to trip over it all and hurt myself. Then he asks if I'll make lasagna for us tonight. I text him back no problemo on the home front. As I finish my text everyone starts for the lunch buffet. I don't know why they say it is catered. To me, catered means that someone comes and serves you food. To SIP, well soon to be GEH, and whoever else, catered lunch means they bring it up and we assistants dish it out. So technically Mr. Roach, Mr. Laumber and the other VPs and administrators get their lunch handed to them. And of course, Christian.

After we've served, Morgan and I head for the usual conference room where we'll get our lunch. I am just standing in line when Taylor catches my eye and waits. I sigh, nudge Morgan and he rolls his eyes, then I take off after the mountain-sized head of security for the beautiful Mr. Grey. That's another thing. All the women talk about how beautiful Christian is, how handsome, built, pumped, pretty, whatever designation they say. I remember him telling me, "It's just a face" and I begin to see how having that face attached to him 24/7 and always approaching the world with it could be … well, off putting. No wonder he's always in a bad mood if everyone's first reaction to him is that they'd like to get into his pants … his wallet … his favor.

Putting it aside I follow Taylor down the now familiar hallway to the small lounge area with its wooden desk and black leather swivel chair. I wait patiently as he turns to face me and with the now standard phrase presents me with … a Wal-Mart bag. It's small and the plastic is thin. Cheap. I actually feel a smile starting across my face and open the bag. Inside, attached to a plain plastic square, is a pair of hoop earrings. The price tag, a white piece of sticky tape with the price stamped on it says $5.99. They are delicate, simple, grey and the fingertip size that I have decided is my normal work look.

Ignoring Taylor's pleased gaze, I take out my current earrings and put these in. There isn't a mirror in this room, but I am certain they look just fine. I slip the pair I had been wearing into the bag. "Very nice," I state. "Please tell Mr. Grey that he has finally offered me something I can accept." His eyes flit behind me and the emotion drains out of his face.

"Why don't you tell me yourself, Ana." Christian has arrived. I turn even as Taylor almost bolts past me and see him passing my Fifty Shades who is in motion toward me, grey eyes so dark with emotion they could be charcoal. I get both hands up and his hands grab me. Tug me in to that hard unyielding body. His arms slide around me tight and the long fingers of one hand curl around the bun I've tamed my hair into. He tugs my head back and then his mouth is on mine. He's holding me still with unbreakable strength and he's plundering my lips, taking me the way he wants to. I stare up through a thick swatch of his ginger hair as it falls over my eyes, seeing the ceiling through a panel of red, then give in and close my eyes. Oh, Lord, the heat. His mouth is hot and strong and wet as he thrusts his tongue against mine. Repeatedly he takes his tongue and thrusts it inside, staying to discover new areas, withdrawing, then doing it all over again. I give in and offer some small response and he groans like he tastes ambrosia. My hands had come up defensively and are stuck between us. I know he doesn't want to be touched on his chest so they curl into balls, smashed between us.

Just when I'm beginning to edge toward blacking out because I can't get any room to fill my lungs, Christian jerks back. I gulp in air as he positions my head against his chest. I feel his own lungs expanding, hear his pants. I abruptly feel nauseous, terrified, an animal that's been hunted and now rested between the hunters gloved hands before a knife is used to cut the throat.

He senses my fear, braces his arms so I'm crushed to him once more. "No, no, Anastasia darling," he croons. "Shh, you're safe."

I nod my head, breathing in through my nose to help slow the need to throw up, and feel my pulse begin to slow. My skin is hot … and with shame I feel my womanhood dampen, the flush of arousal I hadn't known until Christian Grey. My lashes finally lift enough that I can see his face. He's looking down at me, studying my face. My Conscious suggestively puts her finger down her throat and triggers the release of her stomach contents. That would be one way to get Christian to let me go. My Inner Goddess throws her an airline barf bag and starts stripping her clothes off, trips over a bagel she's dropped and winds up on her face, knocked out cold. Heaven help us! "Let me go."

"Not yet." He puts his face against my hair, I feel him inhale deeply, repeatedly. "Not yet, Anastasia."

His lips move in my hair and I snidely hope he gets a taste of the damn mousse and hairspray I use to tame my hair into this chic chignon. Still, I flex my fingers and try to wriggle back without touching his chest. Christian guesses my arms are losing feeling and loosens his hold. Quickly I slide my hands down and … hesitantly … carefully … slide them around his back, my fingers pressing into his crisp white shirt under the perfectly cut black suit coat. There, that should make him release me. He tenses and I glance up to see a look of pain cross his features. His face scrunches up, eyes squeezed shut, mouth wrinkled in a wince. But his arms are still crossed around my back.

Oh, boy. Ana, run hard and fast … Ana … Ana? … Ana! My Conscience slaps my Inner Goddess and shakes her awake. Between them they evaluate Christian's expression, do a quick round of rock paper scissors and my Conscience wins. I let my arms fall and he is so relieved that his arms fall and I am able to step back and around him as he bows his head, breathing shakily, his whole body actually shaking, sweat beading on that faultless face.

I make it out the door and rebound off the frame. Taylor grabs me before I can go down, rights me. I shake my head and gallop through the empty maze, slowing down once I'm in the populated area to a brisk walk. Then I slip into a bathroom and spend five minutes trying to smooth down my hair, which Christian has ruined. Finally, I give up and let it down. The dark brown mass tumbles down to my elbows and I give it a brisk shake. A glance at my watch tells me lunch is almost over and I look suspiciously at it again. Just how long had Christian and I been kissing? Surely not half an hour? Five minutes, max. Right? Right?

I look up as Morgan boldly walks in to the ladies restroom. He is one confident crazy guy. I've begun to see a little of the scary part of him in the past few days. He is very efficient, on top of all that is going on for Mr. Laumber, and even seems to understand what all is going on with the sale and change of owners. There hasn't been a single time that he hasn't immediately had the information Mr. Laumber needs, and in fact has helped other admins out, who then come thanking him all but on bended knee.

"What happened?" he asks now, then does a double take. "Ana, your hair! You're beautiful." Those big blue eyes gaze at my curls.

I roll my eyes. "I fell and it got snagged." I fell in love and my hair got snagged by Christian's fingers … boy am I getting to be a good liar. I don't even blush. "My purse is downstairs and I don't have any hairspray in it anyways, so I guess I'll just leave it down for the rest of the day."

Morgan pets it. "No one's going to get any work done with you looking like this. What do you say we go out after work tonight?" He's glares as a woman comes in and she backs out immediately.

Oh my. Is this him asking me out or suggesting we go out? There is a difference. So I skirt around the issue. "Kate's brother Ethan is moving in for a while, starting tonight. I'm making us lasagna. Would you like to eat with us?"

His eyes round and a shy smile lights his face. I think that maybe with being on the hefty side and apparently such a nasty guy, he doesn't have a lot of invitations … or more than acquaintances. "Sounds great."

"Good." He'd dropped me off at home the other day so I know he knows where I live. "Seven? And it's BYOB." I may have just got paid, but I have bills that need paid, so I'm not supplying everyone with expensive drinks. Ethan will probably have bottles of booze in his luggage – is it duty free in Barbados? – and if not he'll have a refrigerator full of booze delivered – he's the original party boy after Kate. Genetics show.

Morgan grins at me, drops my hair. "No problem. We'd better get back." He leads the way out.

I don't know what it is, but I get quite a few strange looks as we take our seats. Christian turns white when he looks up at me from his laptop and Ros gives him a really concerned look before turning to follow his stare. Her eyes switch back and forth between us, then she smirks. A second later she's all professional and calling the table to order. The afternoon gets started with some kind of overhead with tables of figures and numbered graphs. My eyes almost cross before I escape into a manuscript on my mini-comp. It flashes and vibrates almost immediately.

**Ana, you have pleased me no end by accepting my gift. And my kisses. You won't read my letters that I've sent to you via Prescott and Sawyer, so with the encouragement from our recent too brief encounter, I will express myself on this less than secure system. Anastasia, I cannot express how sorry I am at what happened that last night we shared at Escala. Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight, so we can discuss this further? Christian.**

The kiss was tricky, but I'm across the room from him and have almost two weeks of grieving under my belt. It's like being a smoker who's quitting … I really times one hundred want that cigarette, but I know that smoking is against the Surgeon General's recommendation – that's my Conscience – and really bad for my health. Cold turkey is the only way for me. I slipped; now I crawl back on the wagon. Deleting his message before Morgan can finish whatever he's doing and glance down in my lap to read it, I return to my manuscript.

A little while later I get …

**Ana, go put your hair back in a bun. It's terribly distracting and no one is getting any work done. This is an order. Christian Grey, Your Boss.**

That does it! I respond, typing with staccato finger hits to the small keyboard.

**Mr. Grey, fully half the females in this room have their hair down. Seeing as I am hosting an orgy at my place after work, I'm sure it will be braided again soon. Fuck off! Miss Steele, Not Fulfilling My Verbal Contract.**

And I hit the send button.


	9. Chapter 9

After sending Christian my angry response, I close up my small computer, turn it off and put it on the table top. Then I proceed to stare across the table and out the windows. We are too high up to see more than other buildings, but there is a window washer busy at work and quite a few birds working on their nests. So I am entertained, vaguely, until the last break.

To my surprise, Mr. Roach busies his eyebrows at another assistant and I relax with a cup of tea, delivered bag out by Ryan. I don't know if he came up with the idea his self, seeing as I brought him coffee last weekend, or if it's directed by Christian, who I have courageously not looked at once – no cigarette for me! Either way, Morgan and Mr. Laumber both hurry over to make sure I don't have a bout of hysterics, but I smile calmly at them and sip my drink. When Ryan delivers a Danish smothered in cream cheese icing a minute later I know its Christian's doing. Rather than do something childish like smashing the treat on the table and screaming "I don't want it!", I smile softly up at Ryan and tell him how sweet he is. I can hear Christian's growl all the way down the table and my Inner Goddess cheers for my three point jump shot. Belatedly I realize that this move could be interpreted as attempting to make Christian jealous, and that it is equally childish. So I stop smiling.

Morgan hip-checks Ryan and Mr. Laumber almost run him over as they get between us. I thank them with a small nod and wish for the day to be over. It finally does end and I grab my purse from my desk on my floor and head for home.

On the way home I notice Sawyer is grinning, and when I ask him what's made his day he tells me about how Ethan's luggage caused a major security response. I hadn't thought to tell him about Ethan, but listening to the hilarious story of how six people had responded as if the Gucci cases were filled with TNT made it seem like everyone had learned their lesson. Ethan had indeed brought home a lot of bottles of "the good stuff," and Sawyer and his compatriots had all enjoyed a shot after the emergency bomb drill was over.

Once home I quickly make two large pans of lasagna and stick them into the stove. Kate loves my cooking, lasagna being one of her top five of my culinary crafts, so she has ingredients stockpiled. After that I change out of my work clothes into capris and a tank top, go barefoot, put my offending hair into a pony tail. Ethan breezes in and after a round of hugs and kisses I introduce him to Sawyer. I explain, vaguely, that me and Christian didn't work out – he was there for the big "Ana's boyfriend" at graduation delivered by Kate to my Dad. Then I muddle along about he's still wanting to date me … and hence the security people and more flowers than a florist shop. _The damn things won't die! _You can't throw flowers away unless they're at least half dead. It's a law in the State of Washington. I looked it up.

A bit after seven Morgan arrives and I finally find out the answer to my unasked question … Morgan is gay or swings both ways, as his eyes latch onto Ethan Kavanaugh like a drowning man onto a life preserver. Ethan, who has also been known to take a dip on the other side of the pool, also seems attracted … he does like, um, soft things. I hadn't said anything to Charlie or Alison, it was just going to be dinner for me and Ethan originally, right?, but they ring the bell about seven-thirty and join the fun.

Kate has always been the party girl in our duo. All through college she was out every weekend and usually half the weeknights. She is one smart lady and it didn't take her long to do homework, projects, and research papers, so she'd fill her free time with the social scene. I had kept myself more reserved, usually just tagging along on a Friday night and Saturdays when I didn't work until nine o'clock at Clayton's hardware and was too tired to go swing on chandeliers. But given all the stress I've been under since that first damn interview with Mr. Put Your Hair Back In A Bun, I am very willing to host an impromptu party.

By nine I have a houseful of strangers and am surprised that the cops haven't already been called as the music playing both inside and outside no doubt exceeds the noise restrictions in the neighborhood. Sawyer is still here, along with Cottie, and one of them is never far from me. Ethan has called in a bunch of his friends that he just saw a few hours ago and they've brought other friends. Alison is the social creature of my contingent and apparently group texted everyone she knows, because by eleven the house is full and people are all over the front and back yards. Ethan's paid for a mile high stack of pizzas since the lasagna was gone as soon as Cottie arrived and got a taste, and there are actual beer kegs and boxes of wine in my home being guzzled directly from the spigots or in plastic cups someone has brought.

I am holding sway in the kitchen doing jello shots – who brought these? I have texted Kate and used Ethan's smart cell phone to take a vid to show her I know how to live. I see Cottie doing the same and think she must be sending it to her friends to show what a crappy job she has babysitting the wild child. Actually, I think as I shoot back another of the yummy shots, I am not minding being a wild child. I needed to let off steam. I'm free, single and twenty-one. What's not to love about life? Besides, look where mature and sensible got me … my virginity offered up to a BDSM Dominant who enjoyably beat me at my own request.

This cute guy suggests we dance and pulls me up so we are dancing in bare feet on the countertop. Thank God for high ceilings.

I think that's the last thing I remember.

The next thing I remember is … Christian … ahh God he's big … "mine, only mine" … orgasm … lights out.


	10. Chapter 10

Oh. My. God.

I not only smoked a cigarette, I inhaled a pack. A carton. I went and slept with Christian Grey. Drunk.

I am staring at myself in his bathroom mirror before the steam from the shower tries to make me disappear. I wish I could. It doesn't help to see feel juices running down the inside of my thighs.

Like a bad dream … werewolves, vampires, the energizer bunny … he opens the bathroom door and leans against it gloriously naked and with that superior smirk on that fallen angel's face.

I go for the first strike, staring down at the milky wetness on my thighs. "You didn't use a condom." With the door open the steam rushes out and I can once more see myself in the mirror – if I can ever face myself again.

I am a complete disaster. My hair is the definition of wild. I'm pale and my eyes look like a commercial of the woman "before" she takes the cure for a hangover. There's marks on me that I am pretty sure are fingerprints and my lips are swollen.

"I thought you were on The Pill," Christian responds easily. I only now notice he's holding a glass of water and what are probably Advil. It's his favorite pain killer. Me? I like Aleve … All day long, all day strong.

"I stopped it after I left here," I mumble out. "I wasn't planning on having sex for another twenty-one years." Belatedly I remember Dr. Whatshisname and his shot of Lunelle. I did read the pamphlet. I'm covered. Relieved I ignore Christian and close myself off in the shower. The hot water covers me and seems like a welcome punishment for my crimes against my Conscience. My Inner Goddess is so satisfied she can barely move off the whip cream modern sculpture reclining chair she is on. She is definitely the cat who licked the cream. I have a brief memory of doing that, too, and wince.

"Suits me," Christian comments, and I realize I must have said something from my thoughts out loud as he is following me in and handing me the pills, careful to keep them dry by gently bumping me back to the corner. I take them and he hands me the glass. "Drink it all, darling."

I think he did this same thing after I threw up last night. Or this morning. Who knows and who cares. I slept with Christian Grey again. Oh, God. What was the name of that gum you chewed to help fight off nicotine cravings? Did they have one for sexual cravings? I give up the glass and lean against the cool tiles. When he comes back in I just slump as he begins to wash me. When he washes between my legs I wince. Immediately the washcloth is gone and I can only stare at his wet chest with the light spread of red wet curls as he soaps his hand and very gently washes me intimately.

"I was too rough," he whispers, kissing my temple. "I'm sorry." He uses a very soft spray setting on the detachable shower head and rinses me clean.

I don't bother to respond. I winced because I just realized that he wasn't giving me another bout of painkiller, but a dosage of Plan B – when you have a roommate like Kate you've heard of this morning after birth control option. And when you've just woken up the morning after with a man like Christian Grey, you can believe he's got that on supply. He probably gives it to each of his Subs before they leave every weekend. Oh, God! "What happened to you like your women sentient and receptive?"

"I changed my mind," Christian responds cheerfully. He presses me against him and begins to wash my hair.

I let him, conserving my energy. _Please, God, I will devote my life to whatever charity you want if I get out of here without another beating. _ I don't think my soul could take another hit right now.

I keep my mouth closed as he pulls me out and dries me off with the big fluffy white towels he enjoys. Then he sits me down on a bench seat – that's a new addition – and brushes and blow dries my hair. He's got a weird look on his face, half bitter anger, half pleasure as he performs what I know can be a strenuous task due to the amount there is to dry. I watch him in the mirror, knowing that he's aware of my eyes on his face. It's either on his face or the rock hard erection that's bobbing around his waist, so I go for the face. He finally finishes and gives his own hair a quick blast of heat and runs the brush through his rusty locks. He puts the hairdryer neatly away, then with a wave of his hands like a magician, shows me a drawer full of feminine products including new toothbrush and toothpaste.

He doesn't share his bed but he shares his bathroom? Yeah. Right. "Thank you," I get out. I am not using the Sir or Master or Mr. Grey bullshit. I'd read about how Submissives have to earn what they call their Doms. Well guess what? I'M NOT YOUR SUBMISSIVE!

He gives me a pleased little boy smile and kisses my forehead before leaving the bathroom. I floss, gargle, brush, rinse and spit, apply deodorant and consider the other items. It's a deep drawer with several smaller compartments. I can guess what the enema is for, the douches are scented. God Almighty, I want another drink! Instead, I head out of the bathroom and find that one of what is I guess my Submissive clothing laid out on the now made bed. I wonder if Christian made the bed or if Mrs. Jones snuck in and did it while we were in the shower.

I'm wearing a beautiful Christian Dior white sundress of stiff yet soft material that flows down my body to right above my knees. It has cute little cutouts at the sides and I can't believe Kate missed this one on one of her fashion buy-outs. The open-toed sandals Christian has picked out wrap around my ankles and have smart two inches stiletto heels; although I'm not sure if you can call them stilettos if they're less than four inches. The matching underwear is a few pieces of satin held together with flat gold thread. Apparently my clothes are at the laundry … then I remember the sound of cloth ripping last night and suspect the laundry isn't exactly where they've been thrown. I look at the Blackberry that had been on top of the clothing. Then I check all around Christian's large bedroom, including under the bed, for my own lowly but efficient cell phone. Nada.

OK, Steele, don't panic. He can't keep you here against your will. And he's said he's not the type to keep an unwilling woman. _Just like he doesn't do drunk women?_, my Conscience sneers. I ignore her. As soon as I get back to my apartment I will box up this dress and shoes and Monday morning FedEx them back to Christian. I leave the Blackberry on the bed and go down to the kitchen after noting it's almost noon.

Sure enough, Christian is in the kitchen heating up what looks like spaghetti. He looks behind him as the quiet click of my heels announces me and takes me in as I dutifully wait in the arched opening. I'm tensed and ready for a battle but instead of raw lust I see awe in his face. Apparently clothes do make the woman, as he states simply, "You're lovely, Anastasia."

I quietly take 'my' seat delicately and keep my eyes on the bar top. He begins whistling and presses another kiss to my temple as he puts two glasses of cranberry juice in front of me. Rather than comment, I drink. As God is my witness I think this is the first time I have not spilled a drink on myself when I am wearing white. When he puts both plates on the tiles, I simply start eating. Although I outright refused any rules or regulations about food, I'm not going to give him a reason to start in ... and wonder if you can dry-clean designer clothes. But again, I surprise myself by not getting spaghetti sauce splattered on the beautiful dress. I look out the glass window walls of the kitchen and watch the sky and activity on rooftops of other buildings.

After he's done eating Christian coughs slightly. That alarms me and my eyes sweep to his and get caught. Why does he have those grey eyes? They are so unusual, so … mesmerizing. I bite my lip and the pain gives me enough of a jolt that I can look away and turn back to the sun as the clouds pull away to leave it shining happily.

He coughs again. "So is that what you want?"

I remain silent. I have absolutely no idea what he is asking about.

"To party and drink half the night," he clarifies.

It comes out disgusted and I flinch. But I'm getting the new Ana back now that the hangover is slipping away, so I respond. "Christian, I'm twenty-one. I want to dance and laugh, sometimes all night long." _ There had to be a first time, right?_ "Didn't you have fun with friends and party when you were twenty-one?" I look into his face again.

His lips twist in derision. "I was creating my empire."

"You said you knew about drinking too much," I quickly remind him. I see a movement and Taylor drifts by with several boxes, then he's out of view.

Christian frowns at me, then obviously decides to change the subject. "We need to go to my parents for a few hours."

I blink at him. "What?"

"They're hosting a fundraiser tonight. My Mom's got a party planner, but she's never satisfied unless Elliot and I do some hard labor, too. Do you want to go now or spend some time in the playroom first," he asks casually. But he's watching me like a hawk.

I come down off the barstool like its spring loaded. My Sub-Conscience has kindly provided an emergency exit plan, which she quickly hands to my Conscience. Both of them shove my Inner Goddess out of the way and join me in the sprint for the emergency stairwell exit that I didn't even realize I knew about. It's back toward Mrs. Jones and Taylor's living quarters. I may not do any real exercise, but I'm one hell of a short distance runner … no matter what shoes I'm wearing. I hit the door and literally leap down the first flight of steps.

But even as I land and start for the next set I feel the flash of heat and Christian has his arms around me.


	11. Chapter 11

Meditation: The focus and calmness cultivated by the meditative aspect of t'ai chi ch'uan is seen as necessary in maintaining optimum health = in the sense of relieving stress and maintaining homeostasis.

It's not much of a battle. I'm five feet five inches, give or take two, and weigh one hundred pounds soaking wet … again I may lie about that, but show me one person who's got their real weight on their driver's license … and Christian is six two and I'll bet you he's double what I weigh. All that muscle has to be heavy, right? So despite my desperate silent struggles he's got me clenched tight in his arms and swings me up against him and starts back up the stairs. My arms are stuck between our bodies as he crushes me to him with his right arm and he's got his left arm around my knees tight. I think right then and there is when I dig for my inner Maharishi Mahesh, Indian yogi and founder of Transcendental Meditation.

From about a hundred miles away I hear him crooning, "It's all right, baby. You're safe, you're safe, Anastasia. I won't hurt you," in a repetitive loop.

Taylor's at the top of the steps and Christian yells at him that I could have been hurt and he wants a delay on the door release as well as an alarm. Taylor ignores that and asks if I'm ok. I really think he was asking if I needed help escaping, but Christian snarls at him that he's going to take care of me and he wants the door fixed NOW! Then he storms up the last few steps and carries me back through his penthouse and straight up to the Red Room of Pain. This alarms Taylor, trailing along behind Christian, who starts to suggest respectfully, if urgently, that perhaps Miss Steele isn't quite up to this room yet and helpfully reminds Mr. Grey that the use of said room is why Mr. Grey has been without Miss Steele these past two weeks and perhaps Mr. Grey should think about that.

Christian tells him to fuck off and slams the door in his face. Then he sits down on the red-sheeted four poster bed and switches me around so I'm on his lap. It doesn't matter to me, I'm floating high above my body. Ana Steele has left the building, folks! Sorry, no autographs today.

"Anastasia, darling, listen to me. I need you to not be afraid of me. Trust me, I know all about fear and being afraid. I know I hurt you here, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry, baby. But you have to learn to trust me again, so we're going to start here. All right? Anastasia, snap out of it. I'm not going to hurt you. Look. Look. All the belts are gone. All the belts and whips and canes. Anything I could use to strike you with are gone."

I float down from the ceiling and look. Yep, lots of empty hangers, slots, bars, niches, openings, apertures and spaces. I guess he had a lot of things he could beat women with. I'm guessing they are under the bed until he feels safe to bring them back out. I consider myself. Damn, that white dress is really pretty. The shoes aren't the prettiest, but it wasn't like I had bought them or would ever wear them again. But that dress … where did I read or hear about someone saying you could cut a hole in the bottom of the box and say it must have fallen out …?

"Anastasia." Shake. "Anastasia." Shake, shake. "Baby, listen to me. I. Will. Not. Hurt. You. I know what it's like to be hurt and scared. I understand how afraid you can be of someone ever doing that to you again."

Then why did you turn around and do it to me and those fifteen other Subs? And however many others you did it with? I float down close enough to evaluate my own eyes. Christian has set me down on the middle of the Red Bed and is holding my face in both of his hands. I don't know what he thinks he sees in those blue depths, but I see someone who is trying very hard to sink so deep into meditation that she won't feel the pain … either hers or Christian's.

"Listen to me. Only a few people know what I'm about to tell you. Dr. Flynn, Grace and Carrick. That's it. Ana, please God don't do this to me." Shake, shake, shake.

My Conscience's head rattles back and forth on her shoulders. _He drags you back into this place where you experienced the worst pain you have in your life endured, and this is about him?_ she asks. My Inner Goddess, who is still lying on the floor from when she was trampled in the mad dash toward freedom just waves a hand, which flops back to the ground.

"Anastasia, listen to me." Christian shifts and wraps his arms around me, puts his lips to my ear. "I was four years old when a cop found me. I'd sat in a two room pitiful slum apartment with my dead crack whore mother for four days. I just sat there brushing her hair and drinking water from a dirty glass, starving because she didn't have any food in the house. I'd been beaten and abused and burned with cigarettes by her pimp all my life. It fucked me up, Anastasia. Fifty shades of fucked up. Grace and Carrick adopted me, but I didn't talk for years. Not until Mia came to live with us. But no matter what they did, I didn't feel, Anastasia. Not really. Not truly. Not until you fell into my office did I begin to experience even partially the most normal of human emotions. Baby, are you hearing me?"

So you were really, really hurt and traumatized? And how did you fuck that up in your mind and make it just hunky dory to make _me_ be really hurt and traumatized? Is this some misery loves company bullshit? You can only love someone who's been hurt?

Wait a minute. He hasn't said love. I said love. I'm pretty sure I may still be in love with him. But that moment, those many moments when he could have said the words, when I needed him to say those three words, had passed.

My Inner Goddess has crawled onto her throne and is ABSOLUTEL ! If this delicious Sex God wasn't going to fuck her and provide orgasms, she wanted nothing to do with him. She starts looking around for that cute guy that I was dancing with on the kitchen counters last night.

My Conscience smiles. Now we are on the same page, if not for the same reasons.

"Shit! This was a bad idea." Christian gathered me back up and carried me out, down the stairs, back to his room. "It's all right, baby. You're safe." He gathers me to him, once more spooning my body into his, and rocks me. After a while he begins to sing quietly …

My heart cries for you

Sighs for you, dies for you

And my arms long for you

Please come back to me

If you're in Arizona I'll follow you

If you're in Minnesota, I'll be there too

You'll have a million chances to start anew

Because my love is endless for you

My heart cries for you

Sighs for you, dies for you

My arms long for you

Please come back to me

The bloom has left the roses since you left me

The birds have left my window since you left me

I'm lonely as a sailboat that's lost at sea

I'm lonely as a human can be

My heart cries for you, please come back to me

An unimportant quarrel is what we had

We have to learn to live with the good and the bad

Together we were happy, apart we're sad

This loneliness is driving me mad

My heart cries for you, dies for you

My arms long for you

Please come back to me

Come back to me

As the song ends I feel myself floating gently back down and into my body. With the end of my meditation I draw in a deep breath.

Immediately Christian turns me so that I'm on my back and he is leaning over me, looking down with a relieved expression. "You're back."

I rest my head on the pillow and nod. Our eyes meet and hold. "Nothing's changed," I whisper.

Christian immediately frowns and shakes his head. "You're wrong. Everything's changed. I've been crazy without you these past two weeks. Ana, you have to stay with me. I can't take a deep breath without you." He stops as I just shake my head and keep shaking it.

"Christian, I don't want to be a Submissive. I don't enjoy pain –" he interrupts me.

"You don't know what you enjoy or don't, Ana. If you'll only trust me, I can show you how much pleasure you can bear. I'll make you beg and plead and scream with pleasure." He kisses me, his tongue taking my mouth, lips fitting over mine, a slow, dominating kiss. "You agreed, Anastasia. Signed on the dotted line. You agreed to be mine. Contracts. Rules. Punishments. Let me show you how much pleasure there can be." Between each sentence he kisses me again, drugging me. I sink further into the pillows.

I am losing myself. His mouth moves across my cheek until he can torture my ear, licking nibbling, his lips sucking before he suddenly bites the sensitive cords underneath. I shriek in surprise, not pain, and the hands he has been holding progressively farther up over my head move to push him away. Only they don't. I gasp and arch my head back. He's used thick black cuffs to bind me to his bed.

"Shhh," he orders, sweeping the stiff white skirt up and folding it over my chest. "I don't want any distractions. I can't have you touching me right now. I had to install them. For you. I want you so badly, Anastasia, and this way I know you can't touch me. But we're still here, in my bed. It's a first for me, baby. First and only with you." And with that he begins to lick my stomach. Long, slow, tasting licks.

By now, I'm just lost. My memory of last night is almost nil. I have vague flashes of Christian carrying me out to one of those damn black SUVs – does he have a fleet of them? And I remember tearing his clothes off … I think. I think I remember Christian tearing mine off. And I'm sure there was conversation in there somewhere. I definitely remember kissing, licking and sucking his cock until he explodes inside my mouth. And I remember experiencing the best orgasm of my life … I agreed to something? Signed something? "No, no, no, no."

"Yes," Christian corrected. He's licking my hip bones, alternating, until I can feel the wetness from his mouth coating my skin. He feels hot and heavy against my body as I squirm underneath him.

I get a big breath, tug hard at the thick bracelets of soft leather around my wrists, and try to talk my way out of this. My Conscience holds up cue cards. "Christian." My Inner Goddess has snuck in a card. "Darling." My Conscience takes the offending card and hits her on top of the head. "Stop it."

He looks up at me, those gray eyes heavy lidded. I understand the term smoking hot. It describes his eyes. "Wrong word. Call me darling again." And he dives straight down between my legs, shoving them apart with hands and body before ripping the delicate panties away. Then his hands cage my mound and he rubs his nose up and down my delicate folds.

"Remind me what the right word is," I beg, twisting, trying to get away. If he does this, if he gives me another orgasm, I'll go under. I'll go under and want these feelings of wondrous passion, hunger for this crazed and injured person. "Stop it," I'm begging him.

"You're mine, Anastasia," he responds, like that's an explanation. Then he opens my folds and puts his mouth over my clitoris.

I can't help it. He sucks gently, then uses his tongue to rub the nerve bundle. His hot breath scalds me and he rubs, up and down. I choke, arch away and he cups my hips and pulls them up to his face. Now he's rubbing his tongue hard against me, his fingers rhythmically flexing into the soft skin inside my thighs. He's licking and then suckling, steady sucking pulses that have me whimpering. For one last try, one last effort to end my fall into this gilded cage, I yank both my legs up and press my feet hard into Christian's shoulders, pushing him away. Or at least trying to.

He mutters something and nips at me, which brings my efforts to escape to a screaming halt. But he leans back and grips my left ankle, turns, and simply cuffs me to the end of the bed. I'm stretched out like … hell, I don't know. But I kick at him uselessly as he grabs my last free limb and keeps me from flailing at him while he adjusts my last bond. When he's satisfied, he cuffs me other ankle.

I let my head fall back. I did not agree to this. But it feels so … dirty. Good and dirty. And arousing. Fuck it! I want this orgasm. Consider it payment for all the shit I've gone through in the last two weeks. He owes me an orgasm for every cup of goddamn coffee I gave him this past week, my Inner Goddess argues. She's got a sheaf of papers. One for each time I set, without spilling, a china cup and saucer in front of Mr. Christian Grey.

Obviously noting my submission, Christian begins to lick his way up the inside of my right leg, his tongue wet and wide over my skin. From somewhere in my brain I think that my legs are stubbled and he'll no doubt punish me for that. He wants his subs waxed. All the way. Then that talented tongue reaches my womanhood again and he spreads me wide once more and begins to circle his tongue against my clit. I've never felt so open and so … sexual … in my life. Pulling at my bonds, I joyfully let Christian give me an orgasm that has me screaming as I pull my elbows down as far as I can and bend my knees up so that I vibrate as my insides clench and release madly.

Before I'm finished Christian has crawled up me and is thrusting inside. "So ready for me, baby. You always please. Shh. You're ready for me. Let me in, Anastasia. Take all of me." I gasp, the breath already stuck in the back of my throat as he fills me. Ouch, ouch, ouch … ohhh. I open my eyes at his insistence and whine as he begins to thrust, hard, long, fast hammering motions into my wet tunnel. He leans over me, thrust, twisting, showing me he knows exactly how to make me respond. I arch my hips, finding his rhythm. Our rhythm. My eyes widen as he moves faster. Harder. His lips are on my ear, whispering my name over and over until he suddenly sinks his teeth into my shoulder and moans.

Forget moaning! My Inner Goddess takes over, arching our hips, our back, legs jerking against the restraints, wanting to wrap our ankles around his butt and failing. Being unable to do what we want, only able to feel as he stimulates us until there's a splintering inside and I shriek with the pleasure pain of it all. If Christian follows us over, I don't know …

When I'm aware again it's just me. My Conscience is silent, my Inner Goddess replete, sated for the time being. Christian is crushing me into the bed with a sweaty unyielding body, his hands softly stroking my face and hair as his face is pressed to my bare chest. I don't remember him ripping the top of my dress off, but a piece of white material is half across my sweaty face, fluttering slightly with my slowly steadying breaths. I shift and he's still hard inside of me. His hips move, reflexively, then he sighs.

"As much as I would love another round, my mother will have a fit if we don't get there." He kisses his way up my throat, slowly disengaging our bodies, until his lips cover mine and he sucks my bottom lip gently. "You're mine," he whispers, then rolls off me. With expert moves he uncuffs my wrists, rubbing my shoulders until he's certain I'm alright, then uncuffing my legs, kissing a chain around each ankle. I study my wrists … the redness is quickly fading and I can see there won't be any marks. Yes, my Fifty Shades is very experienced.

He helps me to sit up and I can't look at his face. That doesn't suit him and he slides his fingers into my hair, tugging until I look into those gray eyes as he kneels over me. "You can't run from me, Anastasia. I'll show you I can be trusted. With all of you." He leans in, brushes a kiss across my lips once more. When my eyelashes fall to sweep my cheeks, he chuckles. "No sleeping. Let's get a fast shower and try this again." And he rolls us both off the bed and carries me to the shower, stripping what's left of our clothing and letting it lay on the floor of the shower.

I let him wash me. Again. And he washes my hair. Again. But this time he sets out the blow dryer, plugs it in, then turns to me. "Finish getting ready. I have to call my Mom, tell her we'll be there in an hour. I'll find you another dress to wear. Something that won't show where I've marked you." His index finger brushes my right shoulder gently, then he leaves.

I wait for the bathroom mirror to defog, and I see my shoulder. Marked. Yes, he's marked me. A perfect imprint of Christian Grey, billionaire Dominant's teeth are on my skin.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N Well, there is definitely two camps in the reviewers island: Hate Christian **and** Pissed With Taylor. And there's another island nearby: Christian Raped Ana **and** It Wasn't Rape – Read Between The Lines.**

**I have also been asked for a CG POV … which I will try and do soon. However, CG has his own game plan and if I do his POV too soon, the suspense in the relationship will be ended too soon.**

**And now … back to our story.**

I am placing flower arrangements on tables inside massive white tents. I am wearing a pale blue sundress with the label of a designer Kate's collection has not included, my mark of Christian's bite cloth-covered. I am barefoot because I point blank refuse to walk across the gravel and stone pathways with shoes on that I know will only help me to fall flat on my face. And I am trying desperately to skirt around my Dom's mother, who won't stop asking me questions.

So here's my plan. My Conscience is using a dry erase board to help organize all of us. If my Inner Goddess would stop erasing what she's writing we would all be much farther ahead. My Conscience gets a bright idea and finds a permanent marker to use …

First, apparently Ethan has shared with Morgan, who shared Ethan's bed last night per their report, that Mr. Grey is the ex-boyfriend. Morgan can't believe that he missed that. But they are thrilled with how apparently Christian came roaring into the apartment that was overflowing with people, put me over his shoulder and carried me out. Ethan says he's filing that away for use someday, and Morgan says he'd love to have someone do that to him someday, too. Ethan, coming from a wealthy family – not as wealthy as Christian – has had enough paparazzi problems that he assures me that he will talk with Morgan and explain his new "friend" needed to keep his trap shut about what he has figured out. I tell Ethan to just leave my key chain in the flowerpot on the second step up to the apartment and that I'll be home … eventually.

Second, I need to get my hands on whatever I signed last night or early this morning, when I was drunk and stupid. Then I'm ripping it up. I cannot be held to anything I signed or said under the influence.

Third, I am going to find Christian and kill him for leaving me alone with this inquisitive woman who just won't stop asking me personal questions. I've lived with Kate for four years, so I have experience in watching her go for the jugular as she's learned her reporter skills. I just lack the experience in deflecting this kind of persistent delving.

Fourth … I still want him. Christian Grey is a formidable force of nature, but he's also an injured creature, and that calls to me. If he'll back off on using any corporeal punishment, I'll be willing to open negotiations once more, with a few of my demands thrown in this time. I AM NOT sleeping in a different room from him. Hard limit. And he's going to learn to let me touch him. Hard limit. And it's gonna be every other weekend. I need to have a life like normal women my age, not stuck in a painted red room tied to the ceiling.

Fifth … He's got to stop yelling so much. I'll develop an ulcer just listening to him. I'm not sure if the merger or whatever the title of the process is called at SIP is over, but when I'm around, he needs to stop tantruming like a spoiled child on a sugar high.

My eyes narrow on his Mom and I hold up a hand as she asks me for the ninth time how I possibly managed to make her son smile like he is doing. _Because I let him tie me up after lunch, lady! Give it a rest …_ "Grace," – hey, she insisted on me using her first name, I'm not being rude – "has Christian always been such a yeller? I mean like how he shouts at everyone." Let's not confuse when he's experiencing his own orgasm or demanding mine – that kind of yelling is private.

She stops and I can see her thinking. She must be one hell of a doctor, because I can see she thinks fast. Then she smiles at me, takes my arm, turning the job of decorating tables solely back over to the team of people whose job it was to begin with, and leads me up to their fantastic mansion. Just the front foyer is larger than Kate and I's new apartment. _The foyer._ That's some serious money showing. Christian may have Escala, but his parents' home is AMAZING.

Grace leads me to a living room or whatever its fancy designation and nicely orders a staff person to fix us some iced tea. Then as we sit a man enters the room. He is tall and handsome and wearing what is obviously a very expensive suit. He's got whitening blonde hair and penetrating green eyes, so I dismiss him as Christian's family until I remember Christian is adopted. Grace holds out her hand to him and clamps the other one down on my wrist, holding me still. "Darling, this is Christian's girlfriend, Ana. Ana, darling, this is Christian's Dad, Carrick."

He bends and kisses her offered cheek, then looks down at me like I've just managed to find a cure for cancer. Or celibate gay sons. He offers me a grin that is reminiscent of Kate's Elliot, then plants one on my cheek as well. "Welcome, Ana," he offers in a deep melodious and cultured voice.

He's obviously well trained as Grace asks if he's done working and suggests he help "finish things up," because he hoofs it off and I hear him jogging up the stairs a few seconds later. Once more alone, Grace launches into the story of how Christian was an angry, yelling teenager, using drugs and alcohol and fighting, on the verge of Juvenile Detention, Army Boot Camp, or membership in a gang. Then when he was fifteen years old, Grace's dearest friend Elena Lincoln took her "poor angry baby" under her wing, having Christian help Elena with chores and special projects, and all but ended up living with Elena until he went to college. I slip a question in about Mr. Lincoln and get the vague response that he was "nice" to Christian as well.

Now I'm no psychiatrist, but this sounds a little off to me. But what do I know about how rich people handle their rebelling or psychiatrically unstable teenagers? Maybe Kate's Elliot went with another family friend when he started the whole teenage angst years.

About this time the door is opened by the butler once more and in bounces a supermodel carrying a knife in each hand. She's tall and thin with a sheath of curly brown hair that swings out as she strides into the room where Grace and I are sitting. She screams at the top of her lungs, "Is this her?" and comes across the room at full speed. I scream out Sawyer's name, standing to shield Grace from what is obviously Carrick's homicidally jealous mistress, and Taylor makes it to the doorway just as the ruler on heels tackles me. I get under her arms and use my elbow in her back to send her flying, completing my frantic circle to reach for Grace so I can drag her to the mountainous safety of Christian's bodyguard. But instead of fleeing, Grace yells out, "Mia!" and leaps over to the girl on the carpeting. I go down as one of the girl's shoes swipes my poor toes.

It takes a few minutes for things to settle down. Still wary of me screaming if he touches me, Taylor lets Sawyer – who's late to the party – help me up while he gets Grace and Mia to their feet. Christian rushes in, thrusts Sawyer back and scoops me up in his arms. The knives aren't really knives … they're props from a play Mia has a part in, although Taylor cautions her that they could still hurt someone including Mia herself. I'm introduced to Mia, Grace and Carrick's youngest child and only daughter. Christian glares at her but I finally find another woman other than myself and Grace who aren't afraid of his bark. Mia screams – apparently her favorite volume – at Christian to put me down and as soon as he does she envelopes me in a tight hug. While Grace is settling Christian down and Taylor is in low-voiced conference with Sawyer about being too far away from me because what if there really had been a knife-wielding crazed mistress after me, Mia whispers how amazed she was to hear that Christian has a girlfriend and that she just knows we will be BFFs.

I eventually get my glass of iced tea and huddle on the couch with Christian's arm wrapped tight around my shoulders as the Category Five Hurricane that is Mia Grey entertains us. I'm glad Grace has a party planner and housekeeper and I assume someone that helps her with her doctor duties, because Mia would make anyone lose their purpose. She never stops moving and never stops talking. It sort of reminds me of the last three hours with Grace, only on speed. Christian leans down and his tongue traces my ear before he asks if I'm ready to leave.

Right at that point I'd be willing to let him hit me maybe twice with a belt if he would get us out of here. I think he likes my desperate and pleading look because his eyes go all charcoal hot and smoky and the fingers on my arm tighten painfully before he lets go and jumps to his feet. In two minutes flat one of the hired help has found my shoes and we are out the door and in the back of the black SUV.

"Why are these things always black," I ask him as he supervises that I am buckled in, then attends to his own seatbelt.

He looks blank at the question, then shrugs. "Less noticeable." He startles me by reaching out and taking my hand. He holds it all the way back to Escala, playing with my fingers and gently kissing my knuckles at times.

I know what he's up to. He thinks I'm going back to that fucking playroom. Wrong. I've got some new laws to lay down. That's right, Sheriff Ana Steele. The bruised butt stops here.

This sounded good until we get into the elevator together. Taylor does his usual step back and the doors close. I swear we haven't gone one floor up before Christian has me back against the wall, ravaging my mouth. Of course I am madly fighting him off, as apparent by my fingers curled in his near shoulder-length hair and one bare leg wrapped around his casual khaki-clad one. For some reason he has misread my physical cues because by the time the elevator doors open to Escala he seems to think I will be agreeable to him dragging me back to his bedroom. I do my best to dissuade him from this idea as I push him down on the bed and am only satisfied with expressing my opinion by placing my lips around his cock.

The truth of the matter is that I had seen this sexual act in movies while at clubs and in the occasional NC-17 screening theater, certainly read about it, and Kate has shared how she controls her gag reflex. I had filed all that away for someday when I had a man of my own and I could please him. The reality is … reality. Guys go crazy for fellatio, at least my Dom does. I am still figuring out what parts he likes and what urges him on to let go. He likes his entire length licked, but I'm not too sure that nibbles and harder bites are good or bad. When Christian bites my clit I just about swoon from the pleasure and painful nip combined, and it is a definite A+ in my book. I am also not sure about his … err, sack. Balls. I lick them and cup them, but I don't know if they are sensitive or just there. Any place Christian touches involving all those folds and plump skin of my womanhood are sensitive, stimulated by both soft and hard touches … but again I don't have hardcore data to know if it is the same with men.

So I do my best, sucking, licking and nibbling, silently humming the Star Spangled Banner as Kate has shared she does, and pretending this is the best chocolate malted shake I can suck down my throat. I've got a great imagination, so I can really lose myself in this. A stray thought wanders in my mind and I latch onto the name Elena. The same name as on the embossed card Dr. Lowe from the urgent care gave me. Wouldn't that be a hoot if what I am sure is a very snazzy and elegant lady – she's the dear friend of Grace T-Grey, isn't she?- was an actual high-priced Dominant. Like a TV show or on the news. Ha! But then the amusement shuts down as I actually listen to what my Sub-Conscience it trying to say. Elena is not a common name. Elena who takes in fifteen year old angry boys … I shake my head, refocus on what I'm doing. Weirddddddd.

"Christ have mercy! Anastasia!"

I've done a good job here. Time to open negotiations.


	13. Chapter 13

Christian has fallen asleep, apparently exhausted by his life and relaxed by my blowjob. I brazenly dig into the drawer where he keeps a neat stack of white t-shirts and take the top one to wear. I leave him and go upstairs to the Submissive's Room. To my surprise it is empty, only white paint and white carpeting greet me. Not even window coverings. I check the closet and find it empty as well. Huh. The bathroom cupboards and drawers are also empty , which was the reason I had come upstairs to begin with – to use a toothbrush and gargle in privacy rather than in the master bathroom. And I'd wanted a chance at some peace and quiet to pull myself together.

Oh, well. Back downstairs I find Sawyer waiting patiently outside Christian's bedroom suite door. Of course I trip over the last two steps and he has to catch me before I break my neck. When I had just moved in with Ray, he thought it was important that I go to church. So every Sunday we trooped to the local Episcopalian and every Sunday I tripped going down the stairs as we headed back to his truck after services. The third time I had to get stitches on my head was the last time we attended church. I suspect Ray thought I was marked with 666 and the church was just trying to wash me off like they had to do to their steps. That or the minister asked us not to return.

Once Sawyer has me on my feet I ask him if he has the faintest idea where I can find some clothes to fit and he tells me, "They're in the closet, Miss Steele."

"I was just upstairs. It's empty."

"The closet in your and Mr. Grey's room," my security guy clarifies. He's avoiding my eyes.

Without a word I tiptoe back into Christian's room and open the closet door. Automatically the endless footage that is Christian Grey's personal mall is lit by the overhead chandelier. I'm not interested in men's clothes other than how they look on the few men I really "see", but even my Inner Goddess shuts up from nagging me to go jump Christian again and get our owed orgasm, and looks around awed. My Conscience slugs both of us and we turn to a neat section filled with obviously feminine clothes. Ahh. I've found the Submissive Section. Hell, even the bra and panty sets are hung up beside the teddies and sheer robes. Rolling my eyes – Yeah, he doesn't share his bed but he's got a section for Sub clothes? – I choose a foundation set then a coverall that instead of long pants has shorts. It's made of parachute-like material and a dusty blue. And it buttons up from hip to throat. Try and get into this, Mr. Grey!

Then I zip into the bathroom, gargle, rinse and spit, brush my teeth and tame my hair into a ponytail.

In the kitchen I make myself a nice cup of tea, then let my mind settle on a question I've had. Narrowing my eyes I vote that it is time I have a little conversation with security. My Conscience girds her loins, fitting a suit of armor over the cute outfit I've got on. Rolling my eyes, I head into the hallway that my Sub-Conscious has blue-printed for me indicating the office for security. Taylor is waiting behind his desk and nods as I arrive in the doorway. Sawyer coughs and I move a few feet inside so he can slide in and goes to a smaller desk and begins to work on a computer.

Ignoring Taylor for a moment, I frown at a wall of picture frames that are empty. They are lined up side to side, hung like … screens. Hey, I used to work hardware, remember? I have found the surveillance information I want. "Turn them on," I order Taylor.

There's a pause and then they all flicker on. There is not one room without coverage. Including the bathrooms. And there's a nice shot of Christian flat on his stomach, white shirt half covering his naked ass, my torn dress – second one today – and the rest of what we had been wearing an hour ago. That's all well and good … I turn to give Taylor a level look. He reaches out and hits the keyboard and I turn back to see the Red Room of Pain beside the elevator frame. So … there isn't one thing these jerk wads don't know. My face is completely hot red and my chest feels tight. I force myself to remember that Taylor at least has been around for most if not all of us sixteen Subs, plus whatever else Mr. Grey has brought home, so what do I have to be embarrassed about?

"Miss Steele," Taylor begins, shutting all the screens down again. He stops, obviously at a loss for words.

I glance over at Sawyer whose ears are bright red and figure out he is still new to the fun and games that is Christian's secret world of BDSM. Well, that makes two of us.

Taylor chooses to stand, comes to stand near me. We both look at the wall of empty frames. Screens. "I would have intervened, if he had started anything … upstairs." He's speaking quietly, sincerely.

I toss a coin mentally. Be pissed because he watched or be glad he says he would have stopped Christian from beating me again? However, this gives me an advantage. "I feel like I'm being kept here against my will," I tell him, watch as he stiffens and his face grows angry. I feel the fear start at my scalp, slides to my toes, and I order it out into the floor. I have nothing to fear from this man. It's as instinctive as my surety that Ray would throw himself in front of a speeding train for me.

It's the first I realize that I see Taylor as a parental figure. Like Ray. Paging Dr. Phil!

"Miss Steele, at any time, no matter what the circumstances, I would escort you from Escala if you ask. Also, didn't Christian tell you that you have an elevator code? It's the first four of your birthday."

Hmm. Good to know. It also makes me feel better. I'm not locked up in this tower. Maybe my nerves have been wound a little tight. And of course Christian didn't tell me … because he was trying to make me feel trapped. Why would he do that? I am startled by the question and the puzzle it represents. What purpose would a man have in letting me worry I was trapped in his home? I'm about to respond when my name can be heard throughout the penthouse. Christian's up.

"Anastasia!"

I head for the door of the office. "Thanks, guys." Christian is actually pacing circles in the living area, pulling at that glorious copper hair. Is there like a switch to this guy? All Master of the Universe business mogul then anxious little boy in a man's body. "Christian, I'm here."

He literally leaps over a white sofa and hugs me. Tight. He straightens and walks around the apartment carrying me like I'm a teddy bear, his face in my hair. He must have had a bad dream because he's almost completely out of it. Still naked from the waist down, his breath is coming in and out in hard pants and I can feel how sweaty he is as my fingers curl at his neck. I gently knead his neck, stroking his hair intermittently. On the third round of hallway, I tap him on the shoulder. "Enough. You're all right now. Take a shower then we need to talk." I say it calmly, like somehow I'm the one in charge. I guess Taylor telling me I can get out whenever I want has relaxed me.

Christian sets me back down on my feet, then looks down and seems to realize he's half naked. A grin spreads over his handsome face, showing those straight white teeth to perfection. Another flick of a light switch and we have changed from Traumatized Christian to Happy Christian. He gives me a hard, happy kiss. "I'll meet you in the library or living room?"

"Your office," I suggest. My Conscious takes a stand, dressed in that suit of armor. My Inner Goddess has left to go turn the shower on, is naked and ready. Stupid bitch. "I want to look over this contract I signed last night."

Christian drops back like I've just offered him a bite of dogshit and his eyes go wide, and then harden. I don't know what he's thinking, but Businessman Christian snaps into place. "I'll be at your disposal in thirty minutes, Miss Steele," he snarls, turns on his heel and strides for his room.

Suits me. I make myself a cup of tea and dig round in the kitchen until I find a sleek coffee pitcher that will keep the contents hot, probably for eight hours. It's not like I'm the type to shop for something I'll never use and would thereby know about these things. I pour coffee out of the always going unit on the counter, add a plate of cookies, and take it all on a tray to Christian's office. From the way he had it worded, I am fairly certain that Christian is not a between meal snacker, or at least doesn't let his Subs snack between nutritious meals … too bad. I'm a grazer. I like to nibble things between meals.

Once everything is in the middle of the round work table in his office, I decide that I have time to text Kate, check on Ethan and, shudder, Morgan. I'm not shuddering about the mental image of Ethan and Morgan together – to each their own – but over what could happen if Morgan says something at work. Or inadvertently to the paparazzi. I'd seen enough of TV shows featuring celebrities who are chased and stalked by the fifth estate that I don't want to have a firsthand experience. I consider the communication board on Christian's desk. The button labeled 'T' gives me the hint – duh.

I press it. "Taylor?" He arrives a half minute later. He doesn't look like he's been running, but I know he was because his footsteps came too quickly for a walk.

"Miss Steele?"

"I'd like my cellphone back."

He frowns. "Didn't Mr. Grey give you your Blackberry back?"

"I don't want the Blackberry. I want my phone. Please get it for me." My Conscious adds that to the dry erase board in permanent marker. No electronic gifts. It may be cutting my nose off to spite my face, but it's my noseless face.

Taylor doesn't argue, just disappears. While I wait I look around Christian's office. Everything is first class and spotless, such as a billionaire should expect. But it's also … cold. Clinical. There are no pictures of his family, friends, interests. How could someone work in such a dry environment? Or maybe this is why he's so successful; without the distraction of personal items he can completely and solely focus on business. Hmmm.

I text Kate and Ethan, also Alison and Charlie, asking them if they made it home all right and apologizing for not texting them earlier. I leave it sounding like I'm just recovering from a hangover, hence the pre-supper text. I set the phone to silent mode and take my seat at the table as I hear the murmur of Taylor and Christian's voices. When he arrives in his office, I am seated at the table and looking through a magazine that has his picture plastered on the front. _The Economist_ is boring from the name on to the first flip through. No one in English Lit would ever pick this up. I might try and look at it later – if there is a later – and read the article about Christian.

For our meeting Mr. Grey has donned one of his perfectly fitted black suits with the always white shirt and … his silver tie. Our silver tie. Or maybe it isn't. I feel a stab of pain and tears way back in my head as it strikes me that Christian has no doubt used that tie on other women. I'm only number sixteen.

Christian sets up two laptop computers across from each other, then pours himself coffee, sits and selects a cookie. "Very well, then, Miss Steele. Shall we review?" His face is cold, indifferent; those grey eyes look at me like I'm his next merger and acquisition.

I guess I am. Maybe, my Conscious states. She is standing beside the dry erase board. I lick my lips, pull the laptop facing me closer, feeling like maybe this is all a dream. The screen is blank. "Where do … what do I open?"

He hit a few keys and the original contract and paperwork appears. I blink, lift my eyes to Christian's face. That beautiful face that could be carved in marble just now. "I signed that?" Dear God, how drunk had I been?

He easily reads my expression and his face tightens as a muscle jumps in his left cheek. "No. I thought you might want to start over."

"Oh. Thank you." I'm actually dizzy with relief. While I'm trying to regain my equilibrium, Christian busily types and I watch as my screen changes the contract. Christian puts today's date in and my new address.

THE PARTIES AGREE AS FOLLOWS

The following are the terms of a binding contract between the Dominant and the Submissive.

"Um, I don't like the phrase binding contract."

Christian cocks a brow, amused. "Compulsory?"

"No."

"Required."

"No."

"Mandatory."

"Uh uh."

"Just contract?"

I sigh, relieved. "Yes."

He makes the change.

FUNDAMENTAL TERMS

The fundamental purpose of this contract is to allow the Submissive to explore her sensuality and limits safely, with due respect and regard for her needs, her limits, and her well-being.

I breathe in through my nose. "That's not going to work."

"Which part." He gives me a narrow-eyed look, fingers poised over the keyboard.

"I don't feel like you'll keep me safe."

"Anastasia." His uncaring attitude drops and he looks devastated. Absolutely destroyed.

I shake my head. It's like looking at an animal that's been run over by a car. This is a bad idea. I didn't think it through. My eyes are on my hands which are twisting in my lap. Circling, circling. My eyes race over the numbered paragraphs as I search for a way to make this work. If I don't believe he can have my best interests at heart, then most of the items in this contract are going to need rewritten. A lot of these indicate Christian will keep me safe or have safety precautions for me. I'm the newbie here, an innocent less than a month ago. But this is all beginning to seem like too much. I force myself to speak. He deserves to know what I'm thinking. "I don't want to explore my sensuality, my sexuality, with just some man, Christian. I want a chance at Happily Ever After with a real man, not a Dominant who is treating me like his mother's pimp treated her … and you." I don't know where those words are coming from, but they hit me as true the moment I speak them.

Christian stares at me, eyes locked on mine. I see the second he shuts down, those glorious grey eyes shutter, look like any metal garage door that has closed to keep the owner's vehicle hidden. Then he just gets up and walks away. He opens his office door and I hear his footsteps down the hall. Voices are muted, then the soft distant sound of the elevator.

I draw in a deep breath. Let it out. Then another. It is all coming together for me. I took up smoking because I really wanted that cigarette. I don't know if I wanted it initially because of how it looked, but I'd picked up the habit after the first inhale because, dammit, Christian Grey tasted so good. Even before he'd kissed me I'd wanted that taste … forever. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, cleanly. Somehow actually seeing this absurd contract once more had made me open my eyes. A girl, no. A woman like me, one who was willing to hold her virtue for the right man, who didn't do drugs and wasn't a criminal … I deserved a guy who didn't want to hit me with things – I looked at the computer screen. I deserved someone who did not have it written that:

15.10 The Dominant shall not loan his Submissive to another Dominant.

I want a boyfriend, not a man who wants me to give him an idea on my pain tolerance before he suggests genital clamps. The Surgeon General is right. Smoking is bad for my health. Both mental and physical. Emotionally, smoking will lead me to feeling suicidal … it is inevitable. I'm not made of whatever tough stuff a professional Submissive has.

I look around Christian's office, thinking. There is nothing of me here. My cellphone is in my pocket. When Christian carried me out of my home, I had it in my back pocket. Since those clothes I was wearing – was it really just last night? - are probably toast, I've got everything on me that I arrived with. Still, I can't just make myself leave.

I look at the computer. Then I lift my fingers to the keyboard.

CONTRACT BETWEEN

Mr. Christian Grey of 301 Escala, Seattle, WA 98889 (The Boyfriend)

Miss Anastasia Steele of 5432 Eighth Street, Seattle, WA 98889 (The Girlfriend)

THE PARTIES AGREE AS FOLLOWS

The following are the terms of a contract relationship between the Boyfriend and the Girlfriend

FUNADAMENTAL TERMS

The fundamental purpose of this relationship is to allow the Girlfriend and the Boyfriend to explore life development safely, with due respect and regard for needs, limits, and well-being.

The Boyfriend and the Girlfriend agree and acknowledge that all that occurs under the terms of this relationship will be consensual, confidential, and subject to the agreed ideal set out under this contract.

The Boyfriend and the Girlfriend each warrant that they suffer from no sexual, serious, infectious, or life-threatening illnesses. If the Boyfriend – seeing as how the Girlfriend was a virgin and had participated in no prior sexual activity before the Boyfriend – should be diagnosed with or become aware of any of the above, he will immediately inform the Girlfriend and will not have any physical contact with her until after effective treatment and further contractual agreement.

Adherence to the above are fundamental to this relationship. Any breach shall render it void with immediate effect and each party agrees to be fully responsible to the other for the consequence of any breach.

COMMENCEMENT AND TERM

The Boyfriend and the Girlfriend enter into this relationship on the Commencement Date fully aware of its shaky and potentially disastrous nature and undertake to abide by the understanding that, despite everything, there is the potential for Happily Ever After.

This relationship shall be effective for an indefinite period from the Commencement Date ("the Term")

AVAILABILITY

The Girlfriend will make herself available to the Boyfriend 24/7 as mutually agreed on.

The Boyfriend will make himself available to the Girlfriend 24/7 as mutually agreed on.

LOCATION

The Girlfriend will make herself available at locations to be determined in agreement with the Boyfriend.

The Boyfriend will make himself available at locations to be determined in agreement with the Girlfriend.

SERVICE PROVISIONS

The following service provisions have been discussed and agreed and will be adhered to by both parties during the Term. Both parties accept that certain matters may arise that are not covered by the terms of this contract or the service provisions, or that certain matters may be renegotiated.

THE BOYFRIEND

The Boyfriend shall make the Girlfriend's health and safety a priority at all times. The Boyfriend will not undertake or permit to be undertaken any action which could cause serious injury or any risk to the Girlfriend's life.

The Boyfriend accepts the Girlfriend as his own, to see if he can love, honor and cherish her during the Term.

The Boyfriend shall provide the Girlfriend with the tools necessary to learn how he would like to be treated as a human being, an employer, a friend and a lover.

The Boyfriend shall maintain a stable and safe environment for when he and The Girlfriend at together

The Boyfriend shall maintain his own good health and seek medical attention when necessary in order to maintain a risk-free environment.

THE GIRLFRIEND

The Girlfriend shall make the Boyfriend's health and safety a priority at all times. The Girlfriend will not undertake or permit to be undertaken any action which could cause serious injury or any risk to the Boyfriend's life.

The Girlfriend accepts the Boyfriend as his own, to see if she can love, honor and cherish him during the Term.

The Girlfriend shall provide the Boyfriend with the tools necessary to learn how she would like to be treated as a human being, an employee, a friend and a lover.

The Girlfriend shall maintain her own good health and seek medical attention when necessary in order to maintain a risk-free environment.

ACTIVITIES

The Boyfriend and Girlfriend will sleep in the same bed.

Sexual activities will not include punishments.

The Boyfriend will let the Girlfriend touch him, all of him. The Girlfriend recognizes this may take some time, but this is a Hard Limit.

The Boyfriend will limit his yelling when in the Girlfriend's presence, as this causes the Girlfriend stress and anxiety.

SAFEWORDS

The Boyfriend and the Girlfriend recognize that the Boyfriend may make demands on the Girlfriend that cannot be met without incurring physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, or other harm at the time the demands are made to the Girlfriend. In such circumstances related to this, the Girlfriend may make use of a safeword ("the Safeword[s]"). Two Safewords will be invoked depending on the severity of the demands.

The Safeword "Yellow" will be used to bring to the attention of the Boyfriend that the Girlfriend is close to her limit of endurance.

The Safeword "Red" will be used to bring to the attention of the Boyfriend that the Girlfriend cannot tolerate any further demands. When this word is said, the Boyfriend will cease completely with immediate effect.

CONCLUSION

We the undersigned have read and understood fully the provisions of this contract. We freely accept the terms of this contract and have acknowledged this by or signatures below.

The Boyfriend: Christian Grey Date

The Girlfriend: Anastasia Steele Date

I save it, close the laptop in front of me. I make sure his copy of my terms is on his laptop. Then I go to find Sawyer and request he drive me home.


	14. Chapter 14

Ethan and Morgan are taking off to Morgan's apartment for the evening. They want some privacy which I think is something they aren't feeling with Ryan leaning on the living room wall, eyes blank as he watches them canoodling on the couch. I understand because it's taken me weeks to just feel like I don't have to watch myself with security in attendance – they just are, like air or sunshine. Charlie has texted and she will be picking me up at 7:30 to go to a dance club she "loves." Dress code is jeans and t-shirts … she emphasizes this is not the kind of place that does wet t-shirt contests. Considering I hadn't even thought of that, I am relieved.

I let Ryan know my schedule then go to my room for a nap. For some reasons, although I'm still teary, everything feels better. I have ditched the whole craziness that is Christian Grey. I have given him my terms and by God I showed more sensibility and maturity with that little piece of computer paperwork than in our whole time together. I'm not a whore … whoa! Is that it? Is Christian, besides getting his sexual jollies, getting off on recreating how he perceived his mother's life as a prostitute using crack cocaine? Maybe he'd seen her and her customers and pimp doing this bizarre shit … but not all of it. But I'd bet he saw her beaten, a lot of the time with belts. What else did a man use when he wanted to turn himself on with a prostitute, if he wanted to make it very aggressive? He took off his belt and beat the woman's ass.

I turn over and look at the ceiling over my bed. That was it. Christian was selecting women who looked like his mother and abusing and abasing them just as he'd seen from when he was born to when the cops took him away from that apartment with his mother's dead body. He hadn't made it one step past what he had experienced as child. Not when it came to relationships with women, loving ones, that is. He couldn't. Despite being raised in that wealthy home with Grace and Carrick who obviously loved and cared for him, Christian hadn't been moved from psychologically from his youngest years.

Wow. I had gone into the completely wrong major. I should have done social work or something. I let the sarcasm of my thoughts go, settled down, and napped. When I woke up I dressed in skinny black jeans and a matching t-shirt with a ruffle of pink lace at the sleeves, added ballet flats. Cute. I redid my ponytail, added some makeup … basic eye stuff and lip-gloss. And I was ready.

Not in the mood for food, I sat on the couch and grilled Ryan on his opinions involving the Seattle Seahawks. I'd spent enough years at Clayton's Hardware that I could talk like an expert about football, basketball, hockey, soccer … you name a mostly male-enjoyed sport, I could probably hit you with a few sentences to impress. Ryan was enthusiastically discussing training camp activities when Charlie arrived. I did a vague introduction and Ryan listed the facts of life.

As long as Miss Steele had security assigned to her – and I was pretty sure that should be ending soon – I would be under watch to ensure my safety and well-being at all times. He used his phone, a quick text, and a minute later as Charlie finished signing the NDA Ryan had produced – surprised the hell out of me – two men walked through my front door. Ryan quickly introduced them as Katts and Bron, and stated they would be following us to the club.

Charlie gave them her best Southern belle smile, linked arms with me, and we were off. Charlie had an older-model Oldsmobile that had plenty of room. Ryan suggested he drive and we slid into the back seat. Charlie was laughing and excited, joking that she felt like a VIP. She had a hundred questions about the NDA and demanded to know the name of this ex-boyfriend. She must have been busy in some other part of the party last night when Christian arrived and then carried me out. So I just keep my lip zipped about Christian's name, but answer questions otherwise.

We make it to the club. It's called Neighbours and the line hasn't even started because we are so early. Suits me, and we spend the first hour getting some food – which was surprisingly good – and Charlie shows me around. She's a frequent flyer here and I am impressed by how two of the DJs know her name, as well as bartenders and even one of the "hosts." Charlie grabs security and introduces Ryan. They sort things out while we go to the second level dance floor and get things started.

The music here is what I'd label Club Favorite. Kate has spent four years practicing dance moves to the music frequently played, so I can list you about the current top twenty. Charlie hears the opening tracks of "Next To Me by Emeli Sandi" and drags me onto the floor. The music blasts out, the spot lights and rotating color wheels fill the cavernous are, other patrons, some already under the influence, crush the floor. And our night begins. By midnight I'm having a great time, fueled by beer – which I dutifully only drink from the bottles Ryan brings me. Charlie and I have figured out signals as old as time. If she wants to dance with one of the men surrounding us, she wrinkles her nose. If she's not interested, she blinks once. If she wants me to intervene between her and the blink, she touches her chin. It's hilarious! She's leaving a pile behind her as we move around the floor. I head for the bathroom line and listen as Next To Me gets another run:

You won't find him drinking under tables

Rolling dice and staying out 'til three

You won't ever find him be unfaithful

You will find him, you'll find him next to me

You won't find him tryna chase the devil

For money, fame, for power, out of greed

You won't ever find him where the rest go

You will find him, you'll find him next to me

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

You will find him, you'll find him next to me

When the money's spent and all my friends have vanished

And I can't seem to find no help or love for free

I know there's no need for me to panic

Cos I'll find him, I'll find him next to me

When the skies are grey and all the doors are closing

And the rising pressure makes it hard to breathe

When all I need is a hand to stop the tears from falling

I will find him, I'll find him next to me

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

I will find him, I'll find him next to me

When the end has come and buildings falling down fast

When we've spoilt the land and dried up all the sea

When everyone has lost their heads around us

You will find him, you'll find him next to me

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

You will find him, you'll find him next to me

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

Next to me ' wooh hooo

You will find him, you'll find him next to me

Ryan keeps his back to the wall and watches all the people coming and going like they are potential serial killers. Bron positions himself at the emergency exit. Lord, these guys are just wasted on watching me. The President of the United States needs these guys. I think the country would be better served with them at the White House!

I make it home a little after four in the morning and fall into bed. My last thought is that I miss Christian.

Sunday I make my day. By noon I am up and ready for an angst-free afternoon. I pack what I need into a backpack, check out the transit map, then organize Cottie and we are off to Bradners Garden Park off 29th Street. It has beautiful landscaped gardens by college students. And with it being a beautiful day, there are plenty of people. I select a nice patch of grass, spread my blanket and get to reading. I've brought with me Behind the Scenes at the Museum by Kate Atkinson. The author's name reminds me to text Kate, asking how she's doing.

To my surprise, she texts back that she and Elliot Grey are flying back to Barbados for the last week of her vacation and wanting to know why Christian and I hadn't shown up for the Coping Together Fundraising thing last night. She would have texted me or called last night, but she'd left her phone at The Heathman hotel.

Ok … I hadn't known I was invited, first off. I mean, Christian had been very clear that his Submissives were not seen socially with him. Perhaps Grace had invited me, she probably did all his Subs, and this may have been the first time there was a crossover with Elliot and Kate knowing me and being involved. What a pain in the neck! I text her saying that Christian and I aren't together, I just went over to help them get ready for the party.

It takes Kate all of one minute to call me. "What the hell, Steele? I'm not a dweeb!"

I sigh. "I never thought you were."

"Then why were you with Christian, Mia says he was all over you, on Saturday afternoon, then no one can find either one of you last night?" Kate sounds pissed. "They kept asking me all night long, like I'm your owner or something!" So that was her problem … she wasn't the center of attention. Kate Kavanaugh is wonderful, but she is spoiled and expects to be number one. She usually is number one in most situations, after all she's smart and is definitely an Alpha Female.

"Look, Christian and I aren't seeing each other."

"You had a fight," Kate interprets.

"No. I just deserve someone who doesn't -" have written _The Submissive will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting those activities that are outlined in hard limits_ – "yell so much."

"Oh. Okay." Kate obviously doesn't know how to take that. "People yell, Steele."

"He's got the gold medal in yelling. So tell me all about the thing." I know how to lead Kate to her favorite topic = Kate.

For the next half hour I listen to all the details. Elliot bought her first dance for twenty thousand dollars and Kate thought that was terribly romantic. I can't believe that people are still being sold in these days and times. It's what Ray always says, "Rich people play a different game than the rest of us, kiddo." After she hangs up as they prepare for takeoff, I open my book and get to reading.

Five hours later I am utterly replete with the words of someone else filling my mind. Sawyer and Cottie are providing a pleasant wall between me and the normal flying objects that come at me when I am out at parks or on the university lawns. I suspect it's my klutzy nature that makes guys misthrow footballs, baseballs, Frisbees, and whatever else at me. I used to try and throw that stuff back to them until I realized that sports wasn't my thing and just waited for them to come and get their toys. They usually wanted to apologize and talk for a few minutes. But I'm good at being disinterested, so they depart within a few minutes. But after Cottie had gotten tired of playing catch, she'd muttered something about "get a grip" and Sawyer had arrived a little later. After that only the guys that feel really guilty for accidentally throwing something near my blanket come over. And Sawyer gives them a look that suggests they find a different outdoor activity.

See? There are some benefits to security.

Back at home, to thank them, I make another two pans of lasagna. By the time Ethan returns to the apartment we all four sit down to a peaceful dinner. Ethan's the type that puts people at their ease instantly and within fifteen minutes he has everyone chatting. After the dishes are done I curl up on the couch and finish reading. For the second night in a row I have a peaceful sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

I woke with a start. A light bulb could have been floating over my head. He'd paid for them. Christian had paid for those fifteen Subs, just like he'd paid for one night and one weekend women. It hadn't said a word about payment in all that contract paperwork. Because. Someone. Else. Had. Made. The. Arrangements. OMG.

Shaking my head, I get out of bed and head for the shower. Did the money he had paid me for Wanda indicate the usual monthly fee? Was it always the same amount? Where there bonuses? Stocks and portfolios? Ok, I didn't know what that last thing was, for sure, but it sounded like money. And as the water poured over my body … I laughed. I laughed and gasped and laughed some more. He'd almost made me a high class prostitute. Christian Grey wasn't just fucked up about his mother, he'd become the pimp he hated. By God, I should have been a psychiatrist!

Still in a great mood because I have figured out my fifty shades of fucked up, I make a lovely frittata for the household as well as coffee, tea for myself with some yogurt. I dive into Kate's closet and find a beautiful pale amethyst dress that is perfect for the up and coming assistant manuscript reader at SIP or GEH, style my hair and, after a little hesitation, add the Wal-Mart earrings Christian no doubt directed Taylor to purchase. They go with the outfit.

I am surprised when Sawyer stops the vehicle to let me out and hands over another box of outrageously priced assorted chocolates. My eyebrows lift as I look from the box to Sawyer's face. "Really?"

He shrugged. Sawyer knows more than me, actually belonging to the opposing team, but he manages to act like he has my best interests at heart. "T texted me to stop by and pick up a box yesterday. Fresh from my refrigerator this morning. You'll probably get flowers again, too."

I shook my head and got out. Alison chirped and I took a few minutes to chat. She's turning into a friend and, other than Kate, I haven't had many girlfriends – too busy studying and heading toward my 'adult' life: having a job, living on my own. It is great … mostly.

I hand the chocolates over to Morgan who smiles fit to break the bank, and go to my desk to secure my purse and open my mail, both regular and E. Morgan secures me for break and lunch, almost unprofessionally bouncing at his fancy black reception table in his excitement to share secrets. Little does he know that, old news or not, I honor my promises … and secrets.

I'm in the middle of a fantastic story about a barber who kills animals and then stuffs them into the bodies of the men his lover kills, when a FIZ ZIP slides up my spine and I look up to find Mr. Christian Grey, billionaire businessman, handsome as sin, and wacky as Looney Tunes, standing in front of my desk. Taylor and Ryan are on point, which is just as well as Morgan must have hit the panic alarm – better known as Ana's gonna scream button – and Mr. Laumber comes out of his office and gets deflected by Christian's security. I barely notice as I am looking up at my Fifty Shades.

He is wearing one of his beautiful grey suits with the requisite white shirt. I have got to find out who tailors them and / or where he buys them. I'm gonna bet myself a hot fudge sundae it's Italy. I note that he's wearing the silver tie. Doesn't he have any other ties? And I also note that he's got a single white rose in his hands.

Jesus Christ, son of David or whoever else was involved! Does he want people to know we were involved? I panic, start to get up, hit my knee on the desk, the skirt of the outfit is too tight and I can't get my legs straightened … I go down to the carpet. Christian rushes around and helps me up, brushing his hands down my body to be sure I'm not broken. All that gets me is a hot rush of blood to my groin and wetness in my panties. My nipples stand at attention, hoping for oral attention. Embarrassment covers me and I stand there in his hold once he's finished with the pat down, my face pink.

Christian stills his movements and looks down at me. Somehow the rose is still in his hand and I yelp slightly as a thorn jabs me. He jerks back, too late, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig. Oink, oink, oink. Ryan dashes over with a folded handkerchief and presses it to my arm, where a long line of blood is dripping toward my wrist from my upper arm. Judging this is a two handkerchief situation Christian whips his handkerchief out, in the process slicing me with the obviously deadly rose again as he pulls his hand down from my arm to his pants pocket. Now I've got two holes in my left arm bleeding. Taylor charges over and I back up into someone. That person goes down and wraps her arms around me, foolishly thinking I somehow have a sense of balance and will keep us both up.

It takes a few minutes. The woman from the desk two positions down from mine is returned to her desk – I think she was either trying to help or get Christian to notice her. Morgan has swabbed my arm with an alcohol patch and bandaged the small injuries. I shoo everyone away and sit back down at my desk. Christian looks shell-shocked – he's surely used to blood, isn't he? – and finally just lays the offending and now rather crumpled rose on my desk and heads back to the elevators. I keep my eyes on my desk until he's definitely gone.

That's the cue for Morgan and Mr. Laumber to descend on me. I'm once more in my boss' office and Morgan feels it is his job to explain that my ex-boyfriend is Christian Grey and he has obviously been pursuing me all of this time. Mr. Laumber wants to know why I didn't tell him, assures me that he would never have subjected me to the endless round of meetings last week, and absolutely would never have made me get Mr. Grey a glass of water, much less serve him like I had. I just sigh then tell them both that I really don't want to talk to them about the whole mess, and ask rather plaintively if I can just get back to work. They both agree quickly.

It's a lovely day out and I decide to cop a squat, as they say, during lunch. I've noted that since feeding Christian's security people for the last few weeks that I've gained a few pounds. It's not that I feel fat, but let's face it, I can't afford to grow out of Kate's fashionable and slick clothing, so I'm counting calories. Yogurt for lunch with a big liter bottle of cold water for me. My Conscious is doing sit-ups and my Inner Goddess is on a rowing machine. I don't want to tell them that this is one thing they can't help me with, so I just stuff more yogurt in my face.

And then I see him. Christian Grey, a man I had once thought to call my lover, approaching with a handful of daisies. He's got his suit jack and tie off, the wind is ruffling his long silky red hair, both that lush amount on his head and the sweet light curls on his chest bared by those two top buttons undone. I watch his eyes as he comes closer, automatically sensing the stares of other women and some men as the park all but stills to watch this lion in motion. It's a moment and a woman just doesn't get many of them in life. He might be one fucked up bastard, but I had incredible sex with him and damned if he doesn't seem to feel the sex is incredible, too. Those eyes are all predatory and I just … go with it. He strides over the grass, holds out the flowers. I take them, sniff – daisies don't smell – then I slide my right hand up into the glorious soft and silky hair and draw his head down to mine.

Do you know how many guys I've kissed? Like really kissed? Not just a fumbling smack, or even a tongue thrust past my lips, or even a tongue battle on the dance floor – like that's actually happened, but hey it could! I've had three guys I've ever really kissed. And Christian is number three. So with half the park across from SIP / GEH watching, I twist my fingers in that hair and offer up my mouth to a hot sexy guy that's like a rock star and movie star combined.

Given his past history, I have the thought "Thank God he didn't mess this up!" as he pulls me up against him and takes my mouth. It's a hard kiss. He fits his lips over mine and thrusts that tongue that has known every part of probably two hundred and fifty women – ewwwww – into my mouth, chasing my tongue around like a kid chasing candy. And it is great. By the time he pulls back and presses my face to his shirt, my tongue has been well exercised and my lips feel swollen. He's completely ruined my sedate bun, fingers scrubbing through it to hold my mouth to his advantage. I just close my eyes, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt under my cheek. The heat of the day, the breeze, even the sounds of traffic at my back outside of the park … it is just perfect. "Thank you," I whisper.

"What for," his voice is deep, gruff. His hand comes up and rubs along my cheek.

I realize it is shaking and notice that his skin is shuddering as we stand pressed together. His fear of touch. And here I am with the hand still holding the daisies pressed to his back, my face across his chest. My Conscience smiles at me. She really enjoyed our moment, too. But now it's back to work. She gently reminds me to honor his limits and presses on my shoulders, gets my hand off his back, helps me to stand on my own.

"Thank you for what, Anastasia?" Christian is looking down at me, wanting an answer, anger already flaring in those beautiful grey eyes.

Poor baby, I think. You really can't stop yourself from being angry with the world. "The perfect moment," I answer him.

"Mr. Grey! Smile!" A man stands twenty yards away, snapping away with a large camera. "Who's the chick," he asks cheekily.

Taylor heads toward him. Christian may have the whole lion after prey thing, but Taylor is a tank going for communists. But he fumbles the ball and stares at Mr. Grey as the man who is holding me loosely in his arms yanks me back up against him and snarls, "She's my girlfriend. Now bugger off!"


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

I insist on returning to work, refusing to be late because Christian finally made a reasonable and to me acceptable move – he asked me to go out to dinner with him. Of course he ruined it by saying that we would need to finish negotiating the contract during it, but I figure that one perfect moment strained his ability to be normal to the limits.

Have I mentioned that I'm just Average Ana? Normal girl. Worked her way through college. Never even went to a formal prom or anything. I'm a bookworm as well. So it wasn't like I watched the E! News and other social programs. OK, I'd seen the Kardashians and Lindsay Lohan dramas – how could you miss that? – but it had seemed about like watching any other over the top TV show. The point is, I didn't even see what was coming.

I got back to my desk and got my mind focused on my work … after I planned out which of Kate's dresses I was going to borrow for my Monday night date with Christian. Right before the afternoon break I look up casually as one of the three elevators dings softly and opens. As God is my witness, I've never had such a start. Five people get out, loaded to the gills with big ungainly pieces of equipment, look around, then head my way.

One guy has a sheepskin flashlight-looking thing on a stick and swings it over my head. At the same time another guy with the flashlight – like a jumbo sized one the size of a pet carrier, points his burden at me. The snazziest dresser of the group all but jumps into my personal space and shows all of his whitened teeth, some of them pointed, kneeling directly in front of my chair that he half turns to face him. A girl with the tenacity of a terrier launches herself at Morgan who is ready to come to my rescue. And the fifth guy holds a large camera pointed at me and Mr. Teeth.

Teeth goes for it. "We're here with Anastasia Steele. Miss Steele, is it true you are the girlfriend of billionaire businessman Christian Grey?"

My Inner Goddess holds up a cue card. "Sawyer!" I shriek. What am I thinking? He waits for me downstairs in the Security Office. Still, as Mr. Teeth reels off another dozen questions in one breathe, I try my call for help again. "Sawyer!"

The terrier has Morgan trapped between his desk and the wall. It's either bowl her over or talk her out of his way. Morgan goes into overdrive talking. Mr. Laumber comes out of his office and picks off the lighting guy, who expertly turns to head him off from rescuing me.

Mr. Teeth familiarly puts his hand on my knee and inches it up to the top of my thigh high hose, his eyes gleaming. My Conscious pitches in and I scramble my hand – the one not holding onto the arm of my chair in fright - on my desk, come up with the deadly rose. I smash it down on the back of his hand, managing to sink a thorn into the back of his hand. He yelps and yanks his hand back, slams his elbow against one of the drawer handles, and involuntarily starts to stand and jerks it the other way … toward my face. My Subconscious – who tries desperately to stay out of all but the most serious situations - puts her hand in my messed-up-from-Christian's-pawing hair and yanks my head sideways, so his fist only barely touches my jaw.

Then Sawyer is there. I don't see what he does – I've managed to go over backwards in my chair, taking out Morgan who has finally shoved the terrier aside, and we end up in a tangle on the floor. I have mentioned I'm klutzy, right? But whatever Sawyer did was massive, because by the time I get my dress back down over my thighs and look around, the five including the rabid terrier girl are out cold on the carpet. I mean cold. Not moving. Out for the ten count. He strides over, picks me up and hands me over to Ichabod – um, Mr. Laumber. "Keep her in your office," he orders and turns back to the victims of his job. Wow.

The next hours are actually kinda funny. SIP is overrun with paparazzi. They are sneaking in from every door and tunnel they can find. Word is out. Christian Grey, who everyone thought was gay, celibate, or just too private to suit enquiring minds, had come out of the closet with a girlfriend. In a park. In broad daylight. Now most people knew that whether he was gay or not, no one as hunky from heaven as Christian was celibate. So the viewers at home on their televisions, those catching the live feeds on their PCs, or getting an OMG! update text on their smart phones, weren't stunned to hear that some billionaire had a girlfriend. What they wanted to see was the perfect moment we shared at the park. It was like seeing a scene from Casa Blanca. But they also seemed, from the way it went viral, to be enjoying the scene with what looked like Mr. Teeth punching me in the face after I stab him with the rose, me going over backwards in my chair and Morgan going down under me, my skirt up to my waist showing my choice in banana yellow silken panties, kicking my legs in only thigh high hose and Kate's four inch heels to help right myself. That cameraman had gotten the whole money shot before Sawyer took him out. How it got out before Sawyer stomped the camera – I saw the pieces – no one has bothered to share with me.

Giving up any pretense at work, Morgan, Mr. Laumber and I watch it all on the large screen in Mr. Laumber's office. Hell, even due to what looks like assault by the reporter – Dale Jennings of West Coast Gossip – CNN has picked up the story. There are freaking famous attorneys talking about what charges will be pressed and how I can make a mint off a civil suit. Nancy Grace is planning a one hour special on how the paparazzi are out of control. (That must truly shock the world … ha ha ha, I think.) SIP Security is planted outside Mr. Laumber's office, and Morgan gives updates by peeping through the curtains on how big the mob is getting out front of SIP. HR women are writing up policies and procedures like mad – how could they have been so short sighted not to have this disaster planned for? - , sending attachments to Mr. Laumber so he can show them to me for my input. Like I know? Someone, probably Sawyer, calls Taylor and a group of tanks only slightly smaller than Andre the Giant show up and, after checking that I'm safe and unharmed, take over patrolling the eighth floor. Again, I think President Obama is missing out on some really excellent security.

The police, possibly the riot squad, are outside and barriers go up to help the crowds figure out where they can and cannot stand. Morgan, the darling, fetches me a SIP spill-proof container of hot tea. That helps me to finally relax and I just spend my time on Mr. Laumber's office sofa, watching my life explode. Ethan calls and is laughing so hard he actually vomits. I let him talk to Morgan on my phone. After they get done, I check my messages and find fourteen calls from Christian and thirty texts. All say the same thing. **_ CALL ME!_**

Taylor opens the door and ignores my boss and his senior administrative assistant. He glares at me. "Christian is on the phone. I told him your cell is dead," he snaps, eyeing the cell phone in my hands. He obviously taps off the mute button and hands me his cell phone.

"Christian …" I cut him off before he can start on whatever craziness my fifty shades is going to reveal. "I want a divorce. I'm taking half of everything. Maybe sixty percent. I get the kids, all ten of them. I want both cats, you can keep the dog. I'm taking the china and that stupid soup can picture. You can keep that Navy dress by JoJo Picayune – you always looked better in it than me. And I'm taking the pool boy, too."

There is a dead silence on the other end. Mr. Laumber is laughing, big snorting laughs, which makes me smile. Taylor gives in and cracks a smile. Morgan giggles. Finally I hear, "Pool boy?"

"Yeah. Alesandro. Six-two, red hair, grey eyes, built like Adonis," I lower my voice to a whisper and cup it over the phone and my mouth, "fucks like Zeus."

"Zeus. Huh. That explains the ten kids." I can tell that he's relaxing, and he chuckles before sobering. "Anastasia. Taylor says you were not actually hit by the reporter."

"Just grazed. I got him with your deadly rose. Then Sawyer went all bodyguard on him." I take a deep breath and let him know what has truly upset me. "Everyone now knows what I look like in yellow underwear."

He sighs. "I know. I'm sorry. So … Anastasia, our date is off tonight."

I blink, stare at the brown material of the couch. It's nubbly. After the performance I put on, showing my ass literally to a million people, Privacy At All Costs Christian is probably done with me. I try for a joking comeback. "You couldn't get reservations anywhere?"

Silence.

No offer to dine at Escala, I note sadly. "Well, I guess I could cook supper at my place. Or we could do McDonalds. I love their Chicken McNuggets." God, I sound desperate. My Conscious places the snapshot I've taken of my perfect moment and puts it in a suitcase. Time to come home from dream land. That trip lasted all of ninety minutes. He still hasn't responded to my offer, so my Inner Goddess bites the bullet and it blows her head off. "But I guess you're right. Dinner and negotiations are cancelled." I honestly don't know how to end this conversation. I had him, didn't I? He'd been going to try the whole dating thing, hearts and flowers. Who am I kidding? I was going to ask him to tie me up again, would have signed off on probably half his little playroom toys. That's how bad I wanted to see if we could fall into the Happily Ever After book.

He coughs slightly. "I have to go. I … I have to go." And he hangs up.

Well. SON OF A BITCH!


	17. Chapter 17

Christian's POV

**_I fucked up! I fucked up! I fucked up!_**

I have done nothing but fuck up since I realized what Ana means to me. Realized is too vanilla. It exploded into my head, tore up my guts, then shredded my heart. The heart I spent the last dozen years being told by Elena I didn't have. I'll deal with her later.

I have to have Anastasia. She cannot and will not belong to anyone else. Motherfuckers had all better BACK OFF! I literally had ten guys on payroll at the motherfucking Neighbours bar the other night – Taylor had to scramble - , and there were still six reports of her dancing with some sons of bitches with their hands on her ass!

I almost had her. I can sign that SOB hearts and flowers contract she wants, any time. OK, she's gonna have to agree to doing some scenes, but I can work with her on that. And I'm damn well claiming her ass. That sweet tail is going to lift for my cock and get rode hard … after she agrees. Just thinking about Anastasia makes me hard. It doesn't even have to involve sex anymore. I get hard just thinking about her sitting at that conference table, bored out of her sweet mind.

But before we've even ironed out the last details, I have royally fucked up. I've pulled up the contract as I sit here in my office, isolating the lines where I've just breached the terms:

The fundamental purpose of this relationship is to allow the Girlfriend and the Boyfriend to explore life development safely, with due respect and regard for needs, limits, and well-being.

The Boyfriend shall make the Girlfriend's health and safety a priority at all times. The Boyfriend will not undertake or permit to be undertaken any action which could cause serious injury or any risk to the Girlfriend's life.

The Boyfriend shall maintain a stable and safe environment for when he and The Girlfriend at together.

Flynn stressed that it was an ABSO-FUCKING-LUTE MIRACLE that Anastasia is even talking to me after I went insane using a belt on her. He's probably already contacted the goddamn Pope in Rome about her proposing this relationship contract, putting her name in for sainthood. He's all but refused to see me unless I promise to bring her to a session as soon as possible. He even suggested I put it in the contract.

My beautiful gentle girl has emphasized in her proposal that I am to keep her safe. It indicates that she believes that, despite my major malfunction nearly a month ago, I am able to change and prioritize her needs, her limits and her well-being.

When she said, _"I don't feel like you'll keep me safe"_ that afternoon in my office, I felt devastated, absolutely destroyed. But instead of stopping and thinking, or better yet just asking my very bright and emotion-packed lady for further explanation, I just ran. Ran to Elena with her load of what I am beginning to see is bullshit. But Elena has hit one thing right on the head – she always had perfect aim – and that was that Anastasia would be willing to let me prove that I could keep her safe. And her proposed contract had proved that, repeatedly offering me chances to provide for her safety.

And now I've shown I can't keep her safe. For Christ sake, a salivating pap had his hand on her thigh and then practically punched her! I will not even think about how a billion people are now seeing my beauty's luscious silky long legs, perfect Venus mound with the hint of soft curls under yellow panties that I should right now be tearing off her so I can feel how deliciously wet she is. I haven't kept her safe, I've fed Anastasia to the dogs.

The way she ignored my calls and texts speaks more loudly than I care to hear. Anastasia is questioning if I am worthy of her proposal, if I can even begin to try and honor my part of such a bargain. Luckily, I controlled myself to honor the stanza: _The Boyfriend will limit his yelling when in the Girlfriend's presence, as this causes the Girlfriend stress and anxiety._

She has to give me points for that. I didn't once yell when I finally reached her via Taylor – good try by him that Ana's cell phone battery had run out – but Barney had already tapped into her phone and saw where she was on the line with that bastard Kavanaugh. All right, I can't be too pissed with him, since he's having a fling with the Zimmerman guy that Sawyer and Taylor both tell me acts quite protective of Anastasia. But still, she took his call and wouldn't even respond to my texts? I know pissed woman when I see one.

OK, OK. I'm done panicking. Christian Grey doesn't fail. Balls of steel. Anastasia Steele. That brings on a grin. Back to my determination. I've already given Taylor his orders. From this instant on Anastasia is to have security by her side. I normally wouldn't explain myself to such an extent, but I can't afford for any goddamn fuckups here. So I tell Taylor that Miss Steele has agreed to become my girlfriend as long as I keep her safe. I think he gets it, because I don't hear a single word about budgets and manpower.

I do get it that this has got to be unusual for any man who has a good income. A veritable first for someone in my tax bracket. Anastasia Steele wasn't agreeing to my presence in her life in return for money, cars, jewelry, power, any of the plethora of things that my previous Subs requested or wheedled from me. No, Anastasia Steele, whose delicious virginity I had been so indelicate with, has all but agreed to be mine in return for my maintaining a stable and safe environment for her. I just need her to sign on the dotted line.

Ros finally breaks through my concentration as I devise plans for meeting my lady's needs, fingers flying over the keyboard, following my mind. "What," I snarl irritably. Anastasia's not here; I can yell as much as I want.

"It's after nine." Ros hasn't been scared of my bark since her first week at Grey Industries. "Taylor, Ryan, Bron and three other guys have led the paparazzi off and it's time for you to go home."

I raise an eyebrow and glare. Only my parents, probably Mia and Elliot, Flynn and Ros can withstand my fury. And Anastasia. She may turn pink, chew on those plump lips, twist those hands and refuse to look at me, but she by God stands up to me. It makes me smile, forgetting that I am trying to intimidate my Number One.

"And that's why," Ros states calmly. She picks up her briefcase, gives me a nod. "That smile. I like to see it, and the woman who's caused it is probably holding dinner for you. So get out of here. Tomorrow's another day to earn a few million." Her point made, she exits with the casual grace of a panther.

Dinner. Yes. Anastasia informed me she likes something from McDonalds. I don't remember what it was exactly, my mind was preoccupied with not screaming because I'd been so scared that she was hurt by that bastard Jennings. Taylor will know. I do not think I have ever eaten at a McDonalds, so it is not surprising that I am unfamiliar with their menu. I call him and he reports that he has Bron and Prescott inside Anastasia's apartment, three men outside. He's also rented, after evicting the previous renters to a one year paid flat, the apartment next door, and has three other men placed there, in case they are needed. The paparazzi were cleared out by the Seattle PD, and Taylor and his people are holding back the hardcore schmucks. By "holding back" Taylor means that they have been informed that their health insurance probably doesn't cover all the damage that can be done to a man's body by Taylor.

Regardless, Anastasia and Ethan are safely inside and Taylor does indeed know what Anastasia wanted. Chicken McNuggets. Taylor recommends I also include French fries and chocolate shakes.

So I direct Ryan to the closest drive through of McDonalds and spend five hundred dollars on said chicken nuggets, cut potatoes and fake chocolate shakes. The sheer wrongness of it all overwhelms me, but Anastasia is at least five pounds underweight so all this grease and salt will perhaps put a pound on her.

I knock and Prescott lets me in, informs me that Ana is in bed, out like a light. I know from reports I receive that my girl needs a major eight plus hours of sleep a night, and actually faces the morning best with closer to ten. I have never been a good sleeper, have never known anyone who did sleep more than perhaps six hours a night, unless they are using medication, alcohol, or drugs, so will need to meditate on this fact. Once we are established, all the paperwork signed, I can only imagine that weekdays I will need to focus on sexual action from the time we arrive home until Anastasia is ready for sleep. Which means my work will be delayed until she is asleep. I am used to coming home, eating whatever Mrs. Jones has prepared, physically working out with Claude or Taylor, then doing business until midnight or after. Even weekends, with a Sub waiting patiently for my attention, I spent the majority of my time with work. I can't imagine that will be the case with Anastasia. There is a world to be discovered, experienced, and seen through her velvet blue eyes; a world I plan to lay at her feet.

Now, I say a quiet few words with Ethan. Taylor has had him sign an NDA and I suspect that, despite the boy's experience with security, he has been intimidated as he doesn't ask me questions. Interesting. So after our polite interaction I go to Anastasia.

I turn on her bedside lamp and watch her sleep as I undress down to my boxers and white t-shirt. She's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Long, luxurious brown hair that feels alive under my hands. It's thick and full of body and smells of brown sugar and vanilla. Her skin is soft as butter. Smooth, supple, and has the same smell as her hair, and even tastes of brown sugar and vanilla. This reminds me that I want to check out her beauty products, buy an entire truckload so she never runs out. Her body is perfection. Gorgeous plump breasts with sensitive peach nipples I plan to suck on until they're too sore for any cloth to touch, no matter how silky or expensive. This sounds like a good plan for the weekend. I own an entire island in the Caymans. Anastasia can run naked and wild there. I'll have Mrs. Jones and Taylor make the arrangements and we can fly there Friday as soon as Anastasia is done at work.

Slipping into bed with her, spooning my perfect angel, I feel that perhaps things are getting back on track. When she wakes up tomorrow there will be plenty of junk food and chocolate shakes. Anastasia will see that I have made arrangements that she is safe, secure, under my protection, which has been amped up to the max. I did not yell at her yesterday, and I am keeping her first commandment:

_The Boyfriend and Girlfriend will sleep in the same bed._


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

I wake up blanketed with an inferno. It takes me a few moments to realize it is Christian Grey, the idiot, all but lying on top of me. Jeez. I squiggle and squirm until I make it out from under him. I use the bathroom, put a robe on and go out into the common areas. Cottie and Bron are playing cards. They both give me a questioning look. I nod toward the back yard, eyebrows raised, but Cottie shakes her head. So, no early morning t'ai chi ch'uan. I head for the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and find the trashcan overflowing with McDonald's bags. OK, did I miss a party?

Checking the refrigerator I find Tupperware – newly purchased since I went to bed – full of chicken nuggets and French fries. The freezer has what looks like … frozen chocolate shakes in tubs? Good Lord. Fifty has bought out a McDonalds. Shaking my head, I drink my water and stumble back to bed. I turn off the bedside lamp, take off my robe, and crawl back into bed. Christian immediately wraps me close. I have got to get a fan for my side of the bed. Almost instantly, I fall back asleep.

I wake up sometime later and the sun is attempting to send some rays through my curtains. I stretch and find Christian leaning on one elbow, watching me. So, it hadn't been a dream. "Where did you come from?"

He grins, leans in and kisses me. "I worked late. I think I need some kind of reward for yesterday." He kisses me again.

He gets a reward for yesterday? Which part and what kind? My Conscious holds up a three foot trophy that says _Super Son of a Bitch", _my Inner Goddess has a bright gold medal which she mouths says, _Perfect Moment"_. "Huh." That seems like a safe response. Have I mentioned that I'm not a morning person?

"I should get a thousand dollars every time I don't yell when you're around." He kisses me again. This time it's more serious.

"A quarter. Twenty-five cents," I clarify, in case he thinks I mean something strange like a quarter million dollars. Did I miss something, or didn't he just blow me off yesterday afternoon?

"A quarter," he agrees. Then he pulls back and stares down at me. Those grey eyes are smoldering again, charcoal getting ready to fall into hot ash. "Anastasia."

"What?" I shift nervously and he simply tosses a leg over top of me, squashing me like a bug.

"I want to fuck you." He stares at me. He's got that half angry, half lust-filled look.

"Uh huh." Oh, my morning conversation is witty. I try again. "Isn't that against some rules or something? Until we get the contract signed." Exactly who has relationships with contracts? Maybe it's a Seattle thing? Maybe I should watch Jerry Springer … he'd have a show about the topic, right?

Christian is busy tracking down his tie and figuring how to tie my wrists to the bed frame. Apparently my new full-size bed sans head and foot boards isn't his normal and doesn't offer the right attachments. Since I'm watching with sleepy interest, I guess that means I've agreed to … what am I agreeing to again? "Uh, Christian?"

"Baby, I've said it before. Fuck the paperwork." He straddles my body, stripping off my nightgown so it pools around my bound hands and onto the floor. His eyes are bright, excited, and absolutely focused on my naked tits. Amazing. Women have the same equipment, but mine is a turn on for Christian Grey. "How do you feel about Prescott, Bron and Kavanaugh hearing you? You're a noise maker, baby doll."

"What?" That's getting my attention. That and Christian playing with my breasts like a cat with a mouse. He's pulling and pushing, pinching and rubbing my breasts like they're … I don't know. "What?" My voice rises on the word as he rubs my swollen nipples with his thumbs. "Harder." Who begged that? My Inner Goddess jumps up and down … _me, me!_

He obliges, twisting the sensitive flesh harder. "Oh, Anastasia," he groans. Those big hands settle over my breasts and squeeze, twist gently, squeeze harder. "Baby, I need to fuck these sweet things." He swings back off the bed, strips completely and digs through my bedside table. He pulls out a bottle of my Archipelago Brown Sugar & Vanilla lotion and even as he straddles me again, hard cock bouncing over his belly button, he pumps a handful of lotion, drops the bottle and grabs my mammies. The smell of brown sugar and vanilla fills my bedroom as the cream heats between my skin and Christian's. I cannot imagine how this is better than his giant cock thrusting inside of me, until he lowers himself and presses my breasts against him. He holds them firm, his thumbs rubbing my peaked nipples, and begins to slide his length between them. By the time he has his thick root pressed to the bottom of my chest, his sac firmly crushed against my slick skin, I have the helmet and several inches of Christian Grey's cock in my mouth and am sucking hard. He tastes of my body lotion and precum, a curiously delicious combo.

He lets out a full man-sized groan, shuts his eyes, then begins moving. I have never seen this and Kate hasn't shared any stories, so I'm not sure what to do. I keep my mouth open, but he seems equally content with the top part of him jabbing my chin and under my neck, knocking my nose. When I do get him in my mouth he doesn't stay to enjoy it, just keeps thrusting and moaning. His face is a picture in the early morning light making my room dim and ghostly. His eyes are screwed shut, a grimace on his mouth as he breaths hard, those luscious lips parted as he gulps in air and lets moans out in turn. His cheeks are getting redder, his expression ruddying, and his throat is straining along with the muscles in his shoulders, arms and chest. I swear to God he looks like he's really working out here, rather than just moving his hips back and forth and holding my breasts so they cradle him, while he steadies himself on his knees. I mean, it's not a lot of work like fucking me is … is it?

I'm glad Christian is enjoying it, because I'm feeling nothing here. Still, I'm awake now so I have a chance to ponder what happened yesterday. If I'm getting it right, Christian thinks he's somehow honored our unsigned contract by not yelling because the paparazzi dog-piled on SIP and me. And he's doubled my security, thereby honoring the agreement to keep me safe from pap pricks with inappropriate hands. Oh, and the McDonalds. I'm not sure what that's about. I'll have to do an internet search on ways to cook with French fry leftovers. Regardless, I think I may have found a boyfriend.

The hilarity of that accomplishment makes me convulse. I clench my teeth and snort out through my nose, jerking under the man sitting on top of me. Even I know it's rude to laugh during sex. Well, this kind of laughter anyway. Christian mistakes this for passion and starts with the dirty talk, telling me how good I'm making him feel and how much he loves fucking my breasts. He thinks I'm noisy? The other side of the duplex can undoubtedly hear him. Oh, I am such a slut. But it does seem to urge him on, and as I'm getting sore from his hard hold on my breasts and thumbs still pressing and rubbing my rock hard nipples, it's a relief when he goes quiet, stuffs himself inside my mouth, and starts coming. A second later he pulls out and strokes himself hard, squeezing his orgasm all over my chest. And _yuck_ in my hair as it is tumbled all around us.

Christian rolls off me and lies beside me on the bed, huff and puffing like he's run a few miles. I'm hoping, along with my Inner Goddess and even my Conscious is looking anxious, that it's now my turn. So I stare at the ceiling, hands bound together by his no doubt expensive tie, naked, Christian's love juices spattering me, and wait. Unfortunately, he apparently has a morning meeting. After untying me Christian gives me a hard kiss, begs me to let him have the shower first, and dashes to the bathroom.

I sit up, rolling my shoulders carefully. I can see why Christian always spends a minute or so rubbing them. It isn't actually the position of being tied up; it's all the stress of pulling and yanking. Since I hadn't done that much this time, I felt no after effects. As soon as Christian charges out I take my turn. He's used most of the hot water – he likes it scalding and of course has no idea about standard water heaters … he has a top of the line Euro L20 AR Solar system at Escala (hardware shop, remember?) and hotels have endless hot water. I however do have a standard apartment size hot water heater. All those years at Clayton's Hardware pay off: I know I can get a good four to four and a half minutes of barely warm water, one minute of hot, or just go with the chilly and get maybe seven and a quarter. Considering my hair has to be washed, I get a cold shower. Trust me, it doesn't turn the sex drive down, it turns it off. Even when Christian comes in, gives me another hard kiss, the only wet I get is from chilly to freezing sleeking half-heartedly down on my head.

Prescott has obviously been around; she looks at me calmly and indicates with her hand holding a cup of coffee that she has poured me a cup of hot water and set a tea bag beside it. Bron is just red-faced and is obviously not sure where to look. Since I'm wearing sweats and he can't even get a good look at the outline of my breasts – the ones according to Christian's screaming were _'the best fuckable tits in Seattle'_, I ignore him for the time being and carefully go about making breakfast without covering myself with bacon and eggs. After I get the security teams fed – Sawyer now has Ryan with him – I go to brush my teeth and finish my makeup, dress in a charming black with white polka dots dress with strappy high heels. And I'm ready for my work day.

Just another day on the job, I promise myself as people actually take pictures of me and yell my name before Sawyer slams the door of the black SUV, nearly catching my sandal as I yank it in. I can do this.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: From the last chapter … Mr. Sexpertise thought Ana had an orgasm when she was trying not to laugh out loud. Since he was, um, enjoying himself greatly and not touching certain places that would have given him a good idea about what all was or was not moving – and the fact that during his play with Subs their enjoyment is typically earned and after his – so it was an easy miss for our CG! And now back to the story …**

It looks like a Macy's Parade outside of SIP. Sawyer turns in the front seat, Ryan is driving, and begins to reassure me that absolutely no one is going to lay hands on me. He explains that we are going to the garage-level entrance, normally reserved for only the upper echelon of SIP employees, and that if anyone comes within ten feet of me Sawyer will personally kill them. I'm thinking that if he's ten feet away doing his smackdown thing, who's making sure someone else isn't getting close? Ryan looks like he'll be good in a fight, but I'd rather cling to Sawyer. Luckily, the garage is empty of people.

On the eighth floor Mr. Laumber, Morgan, probably the entire HR department and SIP Security are waiting. I double check my watch – no, I'm on time. Apparently everyone has been working overtime on how my days are going until things settle down. I can work at my desk, which has now been moved to the farthest point from any and all access doors, until break, when I get to enjoy the break room on the eighth floor. If I want a latte someone will get it for me. Morgan offers and I smile at him to show how he is just the best. He nods, all officially nasty admin able to scare lesser humans. I personally don't see it in Morgan, but one of the HR women shifts away from him.

Lunch is a battle. I innocently ask about eating at the park. I guess I lose some respect from the security people – it is supposed to be obvious that hanging out at a public place is off the list of Ana Activities until further notice. I can eat inside SIP or choose a restaurant to go to, and I have to notify Sawyer preferably two hours in advance. One day would be much better.

And so my new life starts. Really, everyone at SIP is very nice. There's a computerized table created for how much everyone is being offered for a story and pictures of me. Charlie and Alison and I come up with a shot of me in the bathroom gliding lip gloss on and Morgan sells it for _thirty thousand dollars! _Like in ten minutes! We update the table to a group memo and open it for everyone to make suggestions on what shots to take and which news group to ask next if they want the shot. We even make bets on how much they'll pay us. We agree that everyone whose idea is used with get one hundred dollars and the rest goes to charity. There is not one bit of work getting done on our floor as even Ichabod suggests a shot of me emptying a trash can. Unfortunately it didn't occur to any of us to tell Sawyer, much less Taylor or Christian. Big mistake.

The men of GEH arrive within half an hour of Celebrity News showing the cell phone picture. Christian is screaming at someone on his cell phone as he gets off the elevator; my first clue that he's coming, much less that he's arrived. All noise on the floor stops as he is using his black-list favorites to curse out whoever he's talking to. I immediately freeze in my seat, hard copy of a manuscript flowing out of my hands and across the carpet. Ryan, who is the requisite ten feet away, immediately ducks to the floor and starts picking up papers. I hope they're numbered, otherwise I've just created a new story from this promising author.

Christian looks to where I used to sit and even from fifty yards away I see the panic when he finds the re-rearranged desks leaving that spot just bare carpet. Sawyer arrives and points me out for Taylor who smoothly steps to Christian's ear and murmurs. Christian looks toward me, but I've just now started to get up and go down as my heel tangles with one of the four prong bases of my chair. I reach out toward my desk to help myself up, get a hold of the vase of funeral flowers and it comes down on top of me. I'm covered with lilies and roses – the florist branched out and put both black and white of each kind in today – and treated water, when Christian reaches me.

He looks down at me … and just stares. Then his lips twitch. He's chuckling as he crouches down and begins to take flowers and green fronds off of me with one hand, the other smoothing wet hair back from my face. His eyes are amused and glow pearl gray at me. Ignoring the rest of the world he hauls me up and kisses me lightly. His body is shaking as he tries to control heavy laughter when I brush down Kate's wet dress and he has to catch me when I trip over the container the flowers came in. I try to be mad, then give in and giggle. I'm a walking disaster. It's just me.

And this time Christian Grey manages to ask me out. Of course it's in his own unique way. "Seattle Art Museum. We'll eat there." The amusement fades and he watches me closely.

Funny, he was a lot smoother when he wanted me as his Sub. "That would be very nice, Mr. Grey," I respond formally, stepping back from him. I am wet and flowery and in my still-new job, talking with the recent owner. For everyone's safety I sit down. Ryan slides my disheveled work onto my desk and stands back. I hear another guy ordering a cleaner for the flower mess all over the carpet. "What time will you pick me up and is there a dress code?"

"Seven and casual." He leans down, kisses me very very gently. His lips brush over mine, hold with just a skim of heat and moisture, time pauses to smile at us … until he pulls back. Then Christian startles me half to death by pouncing back and nipping my bottom lip. When he's back to standing there's a satisfied look on his face. Then his expression darkens and he curses under his breath. "There's a picture of you in the bathroom," he begins.

"I know. Charlie, Alison, and Morgan and I set it up."

I have never actually seen someone go ballistic, until Christian Grey. His face goes white, then red. His muscles under that perfectly tailored suit bunch and his fists clench. His eyes go to liquid bubbling silver. Every security guy jumps to attention. "YOU WHAT?!"

Before I can explain he picks up a desk chair, one that has been vacated by all the other manuscript readers either through security having them leave the area to give Christian and I privacy or because they're smart enough to run for cover, and throws it across the area. The chair takes out a desk and rebounds to crash through a plate glass window and heads toward the sidewalk eight floors below. There is a veritable rush of people to the elevators and stairwells as security clears the floors and warm air rushes in through the sudden jagged opening. Up until this moment everyone has been pleasant, amused, and no one has said a word to the paparazzi that I know of … other than my little band of criminals. But Christian's outrageous actions will most certainly change that. I feel the breath leave my body as he swings around, eyes all but red and I think I see horns sticking up from his red head. Taylor and Sawyer almost collide putting themselves between me and Christian. Now, in my time knowing Christian his anger has scared me shitless more than once; but this is so over the top that I am undaunted. I move around Sawyer, still a wet flowery mess, and go head to head with the devil. "And I'll do it again if I want to." It is time for him to stop this absurd childish tantruming. Grace _really_ should have done a better job with the timeouts. I point to my chair. "Sit."

He's turned red enough that I'm worrying he'll have a stroke, then I remind myself that some children hold their breath for long enough to faint. Parents just need to hold strong sometimes. I point and stomp my high heel – it doesn't make any kind of real noise on the carpet and Sawyer has to keep me from falling on my ass by grabbing my elbow for a moment – but Christian gets the idea. He's almost cross-eyed, but he sits.

"Good." Taylor moans as I fall to my knees in front of Christian, a position which would allow him to easily snap my neck or do untold damage before Taylor could snatch me away, and put my hands on Christian's muscled thighs. I am not kidding, Sawyer is repeating the Lord's Prayer under his breath. Staring into those molten eyes, I smile and shake my wet head. "We got thirty thousand for it. The four of us each kept one hundred dollars and the rest went to Coping Together. Your Mom's charity," I remind him, in case he's forgotten. Shit! I'm not sure he's even taking any of this in, much less believing me – I hadn't thought until sixty seconds ago that this could be interpreted by my paranoid Fifty Shades as a betrayal and a scheme to make money – I look up at Taylor. "Please confirm the money transfer with Grace or the charity. Now," I emphasize softly as Christian's eyes have closed, his color faded and I can read his lips as he is counting silently.

I stroke my fingers softly over Christian's thighs, waiting on him to process this trauma. Taylor finally hands Christian a large screen cellphone after muttering into his ear, "You'll want to see this, sir." Christian, who's had his eyes clenched closed like a child, opens his eyes and looks at the screen. He flashes a glance up at Taylor, who nods solemnly. Then he looks down into my eyes. His mouth opens, then closes. His eyes stray to different parts of me. I keep mine on his. But about the fourth time he's staring at my chest again, I look down. I've got part of a lily leaf, white, stuck to Kate's dress, some green frond as well. I'm really a mess.

I look back up into his eyes. "I'm not the one who threw a chair through a window," I chastise him. "You owe me like five dollars in quarters."

But now he's back to being in control and angry. I must be warped, because I'm beginning to think I like him this way. "Anastasia, that is the stupidest, more moronic, idiotic thing I have ever heard of!"

"Going for another quarter," I ask sweetly.

He shoves back in my chair and stands up. Then abruptly comes down on his knees and grabs me up in a rough kiss. And here's where I'm familiar. That mouth on mine is hard and frustrated and devouring. His arms are tight around me, forcing my body to his so we are flush, only clothing separating us. He jerks back and stares at me. "You're spending the night with me at Escala." It's a command. He gets to his feet with me in his arms, sets me – carefully – back on my heels. "And now I've got to go handle this entire clusterfuck."

I smile up at him, bat my eyelashes. "Yes, dear."

Christian does indeed "handle" the disaster he has created. Although if asked I suspect he would say I created it. I'm on the line about that. But he gets word out that an unbalanced employee had an incident and is receiving help. Maintenance arrives pronto to fix the window, replace the smashed desk, and the cleaners get the mess straightened out. By a true miracle no one got injured or killed by the nose-diving chair and all that glass, mostly because it's a side view to an alleyway for where I'm now sitting. Mr. Laumber and I have a good laugh over the whole flower incident and I am sent home with Sawyer and Ryan early since we agree that tomorrow is a new day and we'll try and make it normal.

Once at home I set my alarm clock for five o'clock, and hit the bed for a nap. When I wake up the alarm clock is thinking about going off. I relieve it of the burden and head for the shower. A hot shower feels good versus the cold one I got this morning. I slow things down while running the washcloth between my legs. Hesitate. Then rub slowly. Oh my … yes … mmm. The water turning cold wakes me from the moment and I finish up my shower with a flush on my face. Wow. I really hope I get my turn with Christian tonight. If not, it's time to figure out how to go solo.

I find the perfect dress for a museum date in Kate's closet. Its orange and figure hugging with a V that goes down both the front and back showing just the right amount of cleavage and back. On Kate it is probably almost indecently short, on me it's just above the knees. I pile my hair on top of my head in a messy pile, add a flash of eye shadow, mascara, a whisk to my eyebrows and lip gloss. Matched with purple accessories I am ready to take on Seattle museum life as Christian Grey's girlfriend.

I play a game of Scrabble with Ethan and Sawyer, Ryan declines, as I still had forty-five minutes before seven o'clock. It doesn't take all of my attention to form words out of tiles, I did major in an area involving words, and think of my Fifty Shades. First off, I need to get my head wrapped around how I've gone from being Sub bait to Girlfriend material for Christian. If one of the other fifteen, one of the other hundreds he banged at a BDSM club or bought … I don't want to go there. Anyway, if one of the fifteen had told him to get his shit together and walked out, instead of sticking around for him to end it, would he have chased after them?

My Conscious looks up from where she is beating the heck out of Kate's brother and Luke Sawyer at Scrabble. _Of course_, she answers calmly. _He's a Dom and an Alpha Male animal … he'll chase anything that tries to escape him. You simply fit the pattern: small stature, brown hair, pale skin, similar enough to his poor mother that he can feel good beating and fucking you ... _She refuses to go further into the sickness involved with metaphorically fucking your own mother and I agree we need to drop that whole direction of contemplation.

So if I wanted Christian Grey, I needed to keep challenging him. Easy enough. And while I'm doing what comes naturally, maybe we can see if we even like each other. Have things in common. Enjoy talking to each other, sharing thoughts. The normal things.

My Inner Goddess jumps up on a stage, spotlight white hot on her dressed in a halter teddy of pale peach. Her hair was wild and she had her eyes done up to look slutty. It was a good look, taken with the lingerie and stiletto heels. _You need to get a grip,_ she lectures._ Take the car, take the computer, take the phone, take the deposits he'll no doubt make to your account – because all of us trapped up here in your head know he's paid all the others and girlfriend or not – he's gonna try to pay you, too. He'll spend money on clothes, jewelry, shoes, on you. It's a once in a lifetime deal, kiddo. Billionaire kinky Dom with a HOT body who gives you orgasms. Suck up the pain, do the Red Room and take all the bennies. Because it won't last._

Still reeling from what I've just heard, I take my bows as Queen of Scrabble and head for my room at a few minutes before seven. Ethan's lived with Kate, as the brother to a drop dead gorgeous diva, he knows how to answer a door and tell a guy to sit and wait. Sawyer and Ryan will no doubt give a report – yeah, that nap is an interesting report – and will either join us or trade off with the next poor schmucks that have to watch me.

When I come out of my room Christian is pleasingly awed. He's got that whole make the girl feel like she's Liz Taylor, more like Liv Tyler, thing down. While he's pretending that I'm somehow pretty enough to rate all that intense heat he's spreading my way, I enjoy the beauty that is Christian Grey. He's got what is obviously fancy slip on loafers of charcoal grey on those sexy feet, matching socks, black jeans that fit Ohhhh so nice with room for the impressive package between his legs. A belt – I flinch involuntarily and take in his white shirt with the top two buttons undone so a girl can see those sweet little chest curls all red and glossy on that hot hard chest. Swallowing, I meet Christian's eyes. Those grey orbs are amused, laughing at me because I'm obvious in finding him attractive.

I take a deep breath, let it out, and grin. "I'm ready if you are," I trill out. I look at Ethan who is looking bored as this is a norm in his Kate's my sister world. "I'll make goulash for supper tomorrow. OK?"

The bored look is replaced with excitement. "Cool. Have fun, Steele. Christian," I love that Ethan refuses to use that Mr. Grey bullshit, "take care of her. Hold her hand or something, cause Kate'll cut your balls off if she falls down at the museum and breaks on ankle." He smirks.

Reminded of my klutzy nature, Christian quickly grabs my upper arm and escorts me out to the waiting … limousine. Stretch black. "Wow," I murmur, getting in as Taylor holds a double door open for us. I bounce on the buttery leather bench seat.

Christian looks amused and orders me to put on my seatbelt. I finally select a seat that is on the side and buckle in. Christian just shakes his head and after I am settled sits next to me and snaps his seatbelt on. Then he takes my right hand in his, stretches out his legs and relaxes. I echo his movements, crossing my ankles. After a minute, he crosses his ankles too. I wait for a minute, then wiggle my toes in my high heels, making Kate's sexy shoes quiver. Christian does the same. Then he puts my hand up to his mouth and kisses the back, tongue moving in soft circles.

Mmmm. When he's finished and puts our hands down on his thigh, I tug his hand up to my mouth and proceed to suck on his index finger's second knuckle. But I don't stop. I just suck and tongue each knuckle, looking out the windows as Taylor drives, Sawyer riding shotgun.

Christian growls and I finally stop, giggling. Before he can do more, we're stopping and the double doors open and Christian hauls me out. The downtown Seattle Museum of Art is actually closed on Tuesdays. Christian has worked his magic and I find that we have the building to ourselves. He takes my hand, our fingers linked, and leads me to the special section of the museum that holds a display titled: Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Gainsborough: The Treasures of Kenwood House, London.

And I fall in love. Rembrandt's Portrait of the Artist, circa 1665 was completed and shown the same time as the Black Plague was killing millions. I whisper this to Christian as I stare entranced at the painting. I offer him a long list of writings during that time period, transfixed. I breathe in the beauty and rarity before me, unmoving. At some point Christian manages to put me in front of the oil on canvas of Princess Henrietta of Lorraine Attended by a Page, by Antony Van Dyck. I lose all sense of time, muttering information to him or myself, rapt. I'm not an art expert. What I am is fascinated by all the literature and writers who lived during the same times as these artists, most likely saw and perhaps even touched these great works. It is like the first edition books of Tess that Christian gave me … unbelievable.

When I surface it is to find that Christian has arranged for us to eat in the museum. I suspect he wants my attention as he seats me with my back to the gallery. The table is white clothed, everything else exquisite crystal, quite heavy. I've never even seen crystal plates, but they make the food look delicious. The food has fancy French names and I let my date try to teach me the words, giving him my full attention. Christian is pleased, I know, although he tries to act casual. His eyes are full of desire and I decide against dessert and bolt back to the Iveagh Bequest Exhibition for one more long study, just in case he's going to immediately take me back to Escala. But he surprises me and allows that we can stay all night if I'd like. I'd like, but even with a nap under my belt, by ten o'clock I'm tuckering out.

So we head back to Escala.

In the parking garage we are held back for a few minutes while another couple enter the elevator and go up. Christian takes it in stride but I am beginning to see that his security just automatically consider ever human being a threat. I put my initial thought that this is ridiculous on hold; the incident of the paparazzi coming off the elevator and surrounding me is still fresh in my head. After the elevator arrives in the garage level we are calmly escorted to it. Taylor does his usual step in with us, pushes the code for the penthouse level, then steps back off as the doors close.

I turn to Christian and smile. "Thank you for tonight," I begin, then falter off. His face has gone from gorgeous and pleasant to cold and … mean? I gasp in a gulp of air and swallow hard. My heart shifts gears and goes zero to sixty in a quick instant.

With the ease of an experienced predator Christian has me pinned to the elevator wall, arms overhead with my wrists manacled by one large hand. He stabs his fingers into the mess of brown hair I have fastened on top of my head and pulls my head back so I am looked up at him. I know my eyes are wide with fear because they feel like they want to go wider and they simply can't. "You are in so much trouble," he whispers, teeth nipping my earlobe.

I am shaking. Those little dogs that shake all the time have nothing on the way my body is trembling. "I-I aaamm?" I gasp in more air as he nips the other earlobe. He's holding my hair tightly so I can't move my head without it hurting. Where did this all come from? I frantically try to figure out when I've pissed him off tonight … is this about today? The picture we sold? "Christian?"

The doors whoosh silently open and Furious Fifty Shades bends to tug me over his shoulder and gets off. I blanch as he takes the stairs up to the Red Room of Pain effortlessly carrying me. It takes every ounce of guts I have inside of me not to scream for Taylor to come rescue me. Christian uses his probably hand-sewn loafer to slam the door behind him and lifts me off his shoulder. I am just starting my internal dive into meditation when he catches my jaw in his large hand and forces my face up to him, those wild grey eyes boring into mine. "Don't. You don't get to make me mindless with fear and stress then zone out. This is my time, baby. And you're on it."

I lose my concentration as he crushes his lips down on mine. At some point my dress is gone and Christian has me on the big four poster. But he's not attacking me or beating me. I have my arms around his neck and I tentatively twine my fingers into his hair. His mouth gentles and he begins kissing my cheeks, nose, forehead and chin. I'm still shaking like a leaf. "You're scaring me," I get out in a thin shaking voice.

"No. I'm not." He's lowering me to the bed, his tongue dragging a wet trail down my neck, tracing the flesh over my bra. There's not much to the bra, so he's got plenty to trace. "I need this, Anastasia. You need to be punished," this in his Dom voice.

That's it. I close my eyes and try desperately to find my center. How could I have possibly missed how insanely angry he was? Now I can understand how he got his billion dollars. He's like some man eating shark in a cold ocean. I never saw a disturbance in the water until he's got those large white teeth in me. "Don't hurt me," I whine.

"I won't."

That surprises me. Didn't he just say "punish"? I crack an eye open and look down as Christian pushes the bra cups down and leans back to look at my breasts. I'm still shaking and it occurs to me that he has ruined any chance he may have had that I would some day welcome his "punishments". I've read up enough on BDSM now that I know a Submissive can build up to extreme performances, and even finds them perfectly enjoyable, when it comes to beatings. But I also know that with the way he lost control when he beat me with his belt has ended any chance at my trusting him in that manner. Sorry, Charlie. The Tuna have swum away.

"I'm going to tie your wrists together," Dom Christian states coldly, suddenly leaving me alone on the bed. He goes to a wall, selects … things. "And I'm going to tie your ankles to the bed. Then I'm going to blindfold you." Music begins to seep into the room. "Handel's Allegro Maestoso, Water Music," Christian announces. He returns to the bed and with business-like motions he uses heavily clothed cuffs on my wrists. I'm silent, eyes wide. How had this gone from an amazing date to … bondage. And sadism? Was I the masochist?

Christian calmly takes my left ankle, places a cuff around it and snaps it closed. He runs one finger between my skin and the leather, then clips a chain to the attached link. Without hurry he moves to the other side of the bed and does the same. I am left sitting facing the top of the bed and the blank red wall. I'm not chained so thoroughly as … ever. Lord, within the past – never – but now since Christian … ok, I just don't know what's happening. I am fairly in the middle of the bed, so I could be put on my back or my front and still have enough room for my knees to flex and support my weight. Then Christian blindfolds me. I am at his mercy.

The room is cool and I shiver until Christian climbs on the bed and his naked chest warms my back. He eases the straps of my bra down, then begins to run his mouth over my neck and shoulders, his large hands firm around my waist. The music fills my ears, the lack of sight gives his hands, his breath, the wetness of his tongue, all build on my senses. He takes down my hair and braids it, the precise movements so easy that it drives home the fact that, contract or not, I am merely number sixteen. Or one hundred sixty. Does it matter?

"I've never done this before," he finally tells me. His voice is low, growly, and the air over my skin is moist, hot. "I had to call Elena. She told me what to do. How to do this." He bit me, hard, on my neck, and I whimper as he holds me that way.

I think of Wild Kingdom … where the Puma holds his female at the back of her neck while he mates with her. I still can't believe they let kids watch that stuff. Then my mind goes into overtime. Elena. Dr. Lowe's Elena that he gave me a card so she could teach me about becoming a Submissive? How many Elenas would these Seattle Dominants know? "Don't beat me," I whine again. It's coming naturally. All of the mes in my brain are helping with cue cards. My Subconscious holds "Don't", my Conscious holds "beat", and my Inner Goddess holds "me" up on white placards in large block lettering.

"I swear, Anastasia, on my life; I will not ever use anything more than my hand on your ass again." He chooses another spot and fastens what I know are straight white teeth to my shoulder.

I'll have to ask later if he had braces. Right now, I wince and think that there is a whole doctorate level of BDSM online that he could still use to hurt me severely, and never have to use his hand! I find myself thinking that this is my payment to Christian for the museum and thrust that away. I did not owe him the use or misuse of my body for a date!

"Do you know why you're being punished, Anastasia?" Once more he is the Dom, cold, hard, angry and cruel.

"Because you need to be on top," I whisper, my voice turning and tumbling with the music of Handel. He wants all the control, he needs it so the fear doesn't rain down on him. Christian Grey only understands power, not love. Behind the blindfold of stiff leather my eyes are wet.

That gives him a pause. But Christian regroups immediately and puts his mouth close to my ear. "Perhaps, perhaps. You stupidly fed a photo of yourself to the paparazzi, Anastasia. You misused your new position in my life. That's the first thing. The next is that you tell me you can do so again, not even seeing the error of your way the first time. You need educated, Anastasia. The people in my life, in my world, DO NOT have contact with any newspapers, magazines, television or even radio people. Am I making myself clear, Anastasia?" He bites me again.

Damn! That hurts! I can figure out the correct answer, I did make it through college with a 4.0. "Yes, Sir." I don't agree, and I'll have to revisit the issue later … probably from that specialty clinic Dr. Lowe mentioned. But for the sake of my skin, I'm agreeing right now.

His hands move, cupping my bare breasts, his fingers roughly twisting my nipples. I whimper, it feels so good, and push myself into his hands. He runs his nails over my skin and it is divine. He keeps doing it, until my breasts feel like race tracks he is circling. When he stops, my head falls forward. Immediately he grabs my braid and yanks my head back, angling his body so I am leaning back against him, his knees under my thighs as I am straddling the bed. He licks my throat, my jaw, as much of my face as he can reach. The music swells and I moan.

"That's right, little girl." Christian bites my jaw, holding me as he strokes my spread legs with both hands, those nails running over the delicacy of my inner thighs. "Moan for me. I want to hear you." He waits until I am a shuddering mess, then places one hand over my sex and begins to rhythmically squeeze. "You're being punished for chastising me in public. If I want to throw chairs, break windows, break someone's god damn neck, I will not be corrected like some child, Anastasia. I am not a child," he snarls. He continues to squeeze me, making my body weep with wetness and need, arousal.

I'm not sure the right answer is 'Yes, Sir' since that didn't get me out of this situation. So I go with a, "Yes, Master." He is continuing with that hand cupping and squeezing, squeezing … milking … me. God, yes, it's like he's milking a goat or cow. Rhythmic squeezes that don't stop. I'm beginning to gasp, the sounds pulled from me as his free hand returns to my breasts where he alternates pinching my nipples. "Don't stop," I beg.

But I should have kept my big mouth shut. As the music starts again, Christian moves and drags my arms up over head, loosely attaching my bound wrists to a gimlet that moves on a chain attached overhead. My shoulders aren't strained as I sit up, but when he moves me so I am arched forward they pull back so my breasts jut toward the wall. Immediately Christian presses a hand into the small of my back, arching me further. His other hand dips, slowly tracing the slit from my ass to where I am dripping wet and ready for him. A long finger eases into my flesh which brings a near shriek from me, I'm so close to my very necessary and wanted orgasm. "No," he snaps. "You don't have permission to come."

Permission? Is he nuts? I haven't given him permission to do this kinky shit with me and yet here we are. I'll come if I damn well want to! Even as I'm on a mental rant Christian fingers apart my folds and presents the head of his cock where I need it. I'm certain I have never seen this position, but it's not impossible. I'm straddling the bed, knees slightly flexed in front of me, my body pitched forward so my ass is off the bed. Works for me, I decide as Christian forces himself inside me. OHHHHH GODDDD! He is so damn big and it hurts so good. I can't see anything behind the blindfold but flashes of color as he stretches my interior muscles. I notice he's again bare and wonder if I've somehow told him or he's found out about the birth control shot. He probably had Barney get ahold of my records from the clinic … but Lowe hadn't recorded it … Shit! What am I thinking about when my crazed lover is commanding my orgasm …. Oh Oh OHHHhhhmmm.

"That's right, baby." Christian's voice is full of masculine satisfaction at my outrageous orgasm. "I'm the only man who will ever make you cum."

He's taking his time, fucking me slowly. Deep. Filling me up as he pushes inside through tight soft and wet pink flesh. Just pulling out and arching his cock so the fat helmet drags against me causes me to go over again. I almost lose consciousness and one of his arms wraps around my torso so my weight doesn't drag on my arms. Sweet. When I stop breathing so hard I've out-noised the Handel Water symphony, Christian begins to enjoy himself once more.

I don't know how long it lasts. Christian changes positions so he is in front of me, his mouth, lips, tongue taking possession of my breasts as he fucks me. At some point he unties me from everything and simply has me riding him. His fingers link with mine so I don't touch his chest, but when I come again at his order and collapse, he takes my blindfold off and I find I am flat out on top of him. But he won't let me sleep, rolling and lifting my leg over his shoulder, thrusting into my body with what I see seems to be painful pleasure covering his face.

Speaking of painful pleasure … I haven't kept count, but I think I've had like eight orgasms and the last one was more on the painful side. "Christian. Christian, I think I've about had it." Is there a good way to tell a guy to either come or get off you? Kate hasn't mentioned it. And I've got to really use the bathroom. Can you call an intermission or timeout during sex to pee?

His eyes flash to mine. "Not yet," he tells me, that beautiful mouth swollen from constant use these past hours. The music restarts again. The lights over the bed are centered on our bodies, every sweaty part of us revealed to each other. Now, I see something that looks like fading anger. But how do I know? I didn't even know that during our amazing time at the art museum he was so pissed he had planned this entire … scene. My mind puzzles over this fact as Christian binds my arms behind me, wrist to opposite elbow. Then he leaves the bed, returns with what looks like a black dog collar. He fastens it around my neck, then attaches it with chain to the cuffs on my ankles, pulling me back so my weight is on my balanced lower legs, the front muscles of my thighs stretched. His hand cups me, begins to milk my sex once more.

"I want you. In my mouth. I want to feel you come in my mouth," I tell him, feeling the pressure filling my lower body. I'd really like to use a safeword, but I can't pinpoint why. It's just sex. Not even rough, really, sex. He's got me tied up and blindfolded again, but it's been done carefully and I'm unharmed. But I'm afraid the punishment is coming. Of course his Elena is the same as Dr. Lowe's. But that's for another trauma-filled time. "Christian."

"Christian …" I want to put more strength into my voice, but I'm just too overwhelmed. He's moved behind me and his chest takes some of my weight, relieving my shoulders and thighs.

"Baby, you've got to learn your lesson," he tells me. But the cold angry Dom isn't quite as strong. "I told you I called Elena."

"Elena," I repeat, groaning as he keeps squeezing me. Either the urge to come or the need to pee is getting stronger.

"She's a friend. She helped me, told me how to do this."

"How to punish me," I get out. My throat is dry suddenly. My heart is racing. So much for women sticking together. "What are you going to do to me, Christian?" Already I am feeling along my elbows to where the cuffs hug my arms, fingers stealthily seeking for the buckles. If I scream for Taylor will he come? Or is he sitting at his large desk with a bowl of popcorn and a beer? What about Sawyer? No, he'd be off duty by now. Would any of the people assigned to me stop Christian Grey? After all, they worked for him.

He kisses my face again, licking me like a dog. Dread is filling me. I work at the cuffs, nails breaking as I scrabble at them. _ God, I was an idiot to come back to him. Please, please, please let me get out of this._ My Conscious is flipping through Freud on the internet, trying to come up with the right words for a man with an Oedipal Complex. Read fast, I scream silently. My Inner Goddess is looking lost and confused. The sex had been kinky and she'd gotten off fantastically … the threat of pain wasn't sitting well with her though. She looked green and ready to start tossing her cookies. My Subconscious who absolutely hated how she was so front and center these days was helping me try to get these damn elbow cuffs off and my hands free.

"Christian, I really need to take a break. A bathroom break," I stutter. He's still cupping me, that large hand crammed between my spread thighs, squeezing me. The urge is getting overwhelming. I realize that I've had to pee for a long time now. "Christian, I really need to pee."

Not only am I blindfolded but maybe I've gone deaf, because Christian isn't saying anything back to me. He's silent, the music by Handel has replayed so much that I know what is coming next and I frankly FUCKING HATE IT! What do I do? Try to plead? Beg? Maybe try to order him to stop? What is he planning to do? I am so going to track this bitch Elena down and … I might have to kill her if Christian beats me black and blue again. My hips are jiggling, trying to stop the urge to pee. Christian's hand cupped so snuggly isn't helping. I'm wet from orgasms and because I automatically cream myself with his touch, so the wetness isn't helping me. And it's warm, like warm to hot. I really need to pee.

And then it flashes for me. I collapse back against Christian's chest as the light bulb comes on. Fetishes. Peeing fetishes. Christian's original contract said something about no peeing or pooping. I hadn't done more than glance at the articles during my research because he'd already ruled those things out. But his little friend Elena may not have the same proclivities. Maybe peeing was a punishment in her eyes. Hell, I can pee the bed. I can pee in Christian's hand. At this stage I'd pee down his … oh my God! If he tried to get me to drink piss I was going to kill him! Forget Miss Friend Elena! I'd kill Christian Grey! Not a jury in Seattle that would convict me either.

The questions and possibilities are ended as I erupt under the pressure of those never-ending compressions. I pee into Christian's hand. He jerks, the hand clamps over me and his arm tightens fiercely around my torso. I don't even know what to say, so just sob as I pee and pee and pee. I soak everything, the bed, us. Why even try to stop once it's happening, happened. Besides, I'm sobbing too hard, wracking convulsions as I cry out my fear. As soon as it ends Christian begins to untie me. He separates me from the chain between my neck and ankles, then frees my wrists from my elbows. He takes the collar off, the ankle cuffs, the cuffs over my elbows. And finally takes the blindfold off.

I get off the bed shakily, sink to the floor and Christian immediately crouches beside me, taking me in his arms. Haven't we been here before? But this time he's whispering how sorry he is, whimpering it again and again with my name. I gag at the smell of my urine on us, the bed, the floor.

"Is that it? Is my punishment over? Or is there more," my Conscious self has taken over. Sometimes you just have to come out of yourself.


	20. Chapter 20

"Is that it? Is my punishment over? Or is there more," my Conscious self has taken over. Sometimes you just have to come out of yourself.

"Yes. I mean no. It's over. I'm sorry, Anastasia," Christian chokes out. He's got his arms and legs wrapped around me. Protectively.

What bullshit! I connect with an elbow to his ribs and make my escape. Out of the Red Room of Pain and down the fucking white hallway and into the white Sub bedroom, straight to the white shower. I lock both doors, not that I think the flimsy things will do any good, but it's symbolic. There are no supplies in the room, but I let hot water pour over me, rinsing my pee from my body. When a hand reaches around the glass shower doors I scream loud enough to scare even myself, but it's a dark hand with short clear-coated nails. Cottie. She hands in soap, a loofah, shampoo, conditioner.

"There's the rest out here," she announces grimly, then leaves the bathroom.

I scrub myself three times, then turn off the hot water. I wrap my hair in a towel, then my body. Cottie opens the door of the bathroom and steps in.

"Miss Steele?"

I get it. She's stating that she'll do what I want next, not what her boss tells her to do. If you feed a dog it will obey you … at least once. I look over my clothing … Kate's dress. What, nothing from the Sub Section of Christian's closet? My lip curls. "As soon as I am dressed, we are walking directly to the elevator and leaving. Is there any problem with that, Cottie?"

She straightens and looks me right in the eye. It is the first time that I realize she normally doesn't. When she looked at me before, it was in the eyes, but not IN the eye. I understand. She's paid to watch me, not to care for me. This time is breaking that rule. "I'll make certain it goes smoothly, Miss Steele."

"Thank you." I turn to the counter and work on my teeth as she leaves, closing the bathroom door quietly behind her. It doesn't take me long to finish my simple hygiene routine and put the dress on. It probably cost Kate's dad thousands of dollars; but when I get home I am throwing it away. It represents something very ugly now and I couldn't bear for my best friend to be tainted with it.

I walk out and Cottie nods, speaks into her phone as I leave the Sub room. I go past the Red Room, noting it is securely closed, and down the stairs. Christian springs up from where he has been waiting for me on the lowest step. Like magic Taylor appears and quietly suggests to Mr. Grey that he back away.

I incline my head ever so slightly to him in gratitude, ignoring the very existence of the other human, and stride toward the elevator. It dings near silently as I approach and Sawyer steps out to hold the door so I can enter. Then he and Cottie both get in after me. I don't turn around, simply stare at the silver walls. Once they open again I turn and go out to where one of the usual black SUVs waits with Ryan at the wheel. I get in the back, buckle up, and we leave.

I am amazed to find it is dawn. Christian has kept me up all night. I get home and damn me if there aren't some guys with cameras calling questions out about if I enjoyed the museum and how did my night go with Christian Grey?

Bron opens the apartment door for us. I guess everyone knows about my humiliation. The NDAs don't keep all of us employees from gossiping.

I go to my room and change into sweats, then walk out to the kitchen to begin my job of feeding the animals. Security guards. Same difference. At the smell of hearty Western omelets and sausage patties with thick toast, Ethan stumbles out of his room. I listen, we all listen, as he tells us about the university apartments he's going to look at today, his plans to check out several yacht clubs, and his excitement about my making goulash for supper. He brags to security how it's the best thing since sliced bread. So I guess I'd better get that going.

I make sure I have all the ingredients and put a crock pot full of cubed beef to warm into tender fall-apart chunks for tonight. Ethan doesn't notice I haven't said a word, heads back to bed with a kiss to the top of my head and a warning that Kate will be here on Friday.

Good news to me.

I was expecting the worst at work, but again the good in people shown through. Charlie, Alison, and Morgan are all apologetic. None of them had remotely seen the photo to the paps from Christian's viewpoint. Welch had shown up at each of their homes last night and explained how anything that fed the media only egged them on. And that by selling a photo each one of them had set themselves up to be seen in the worst possible light. He had complimented each of them for donating the proceeds to charity, and even expressed understanding that for people that didn't have money, like Christian Grey, that it was hard to see that there was any harm in doing what we did.

I refrained from telling them all that they had gotten off easy. Instead I told them, when they asked, about how great the museum visit had been. I handed off the box of chocolates to Morgan, then I retreated to my desk. I sat down and got to work. When the funeral flowers showed up Ryan placed them on my desk and handed over the card. I smiled sweetly, put it down on my lap and pretended to be reading it. In truth, I never opened it. Then I handed the unopened card to Ryan and told him quietly, "I will no longer accept gifts of any sort from Mr. Grey. Please notify Taylor that if I receive any more, that I will do more than have a picture of myself putting lip gloss on in a public bathroom."

Then I get back to work. Breaks and lunch are enjoyable, for someone who still isn't feeling much other than some sort of exhausted fugue. We all decide to make Thursday dinners a routine and choose a local Karaoke bar. Alison sends the word out, the more the merrier.

It's almost the end of the day when my phone rings. I indicate with a raised eyebrow for Ryan to answer it … I'm not taking any chances on contact with The Sadist.

Ryan screens my call and hands the receiver to me with a slight shrug. "A Mrs. Lincoln."

"Hello? This is Ana Steele."

"Ana. So much easier to say than Anastasia," a woman's voice purrs out at me.

OK, now what? Neither the name nor voice is hitting any bells with my tired brain.

"My name is Elena. Elena Lincoln. I'm Christian's dearest friend." She pauses but when I don't say anything, continues smoothly. "I so want to meet you. Are you available after work today?"

_Oh, lady. I so want to meet you, too._ I focus on my desk top, feel a smile drag at my lips. "Why, yes, Elena." The name, the word, slides off my tongue like jellied fish. "I'm making goulash for supper. Why don't you join me and my roommate. Say six-thirty?"

I can hear the satisfaction in her voice. She thinks she's just scored in whatever game she's playing. "That's just fine. Christian's already told me your address. I'll bring McDonalds pies for dessert, shall I?" And she hangs up with a twinkly little laugh.

_Oh, lady, did you ever just fuck up._ And six thirty can't come soon enough.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

I have a little meeting with my security staff. Why they haven't all disappeared into smoke is beyond me. Well, not really. Christian had beaten me black and blue with a belt, and I took him back. This time he only made me pee him, me, and the bed. He's probably figured I'll be back to him in less than a week. So of course security remains.

Regardless, I'm taking charge. There is Sawyer, Ryan and three, count 'em, three other guys prowling around. I call a little meeting and get right to the point. "I'm having a dinner guest. It's fine if you let Mr. Grey know. But it goes in a written report, or whatever snail mail you use to Mr. Grey and Taylor. No cell phone calls to anyone, no alarms, no fire drills. Am I making myself clear here?" I glare. This kind of behavior got around Ray the few times I used it on him … its how I got to go to college two hours away from home.

They all exchange looks and humbly agree. Then they gratefully take the first large pan of goulash and butter rolls, fresh salad already dressed with Italian, and thick Amish noodles back to the other side of the duplex – no comment there – and I finish setting my scene.

I get everyone seated just as there is a knock on the door and one of Taylor's people sticks his head in. Sawyer moves to the door and they confab. He looks at me, real wide-eyed. So … they must get training information on Christian's dear bestie Elena.

"Don't keep her waiting," I chide softly. You know what the problem is with reading all that literature? I can fit myself mentally into whatever scene I need to. While it obviously doesn't include BDSM and now Pee Fetishes, I can handle the Mistress of Games just fine.

Elena comes in all Dom. She is wearing black leather pants with knee-high black leather stiletto boots slicked over top. She's got on a black pushup bra underneath a sheer silvery top that is only tied at the waist so everyone can get a view of her girls in their expensive cages. And she's fucking blonde. A beautiful luxurious Reese Witherspoon fall of hair down her back in straight glory. Interestingly, her eyes are blue. The same blue as mine or different? It could be a very important detail, my Conscious reports.

Ethan stands up and both Ryan and Sawyer look … stunned. Hey, they're in the presence of not only beauty, but evil. Being men, they just don't know it. My Inner Goddess snickers at the bitchy gender-libelous thought.

"You must be Ana," the troll states, coming to me and taking both my hands as they lay at my waist. She air kisses my cheeks. She has come in and taken control of the entire house. It obviously is a normal behavior for her and she automatically directs the four of us to suit her. Within a few minutes she has a glass of whatever alcohol Ethan has poured her, her purse has been securely placed on the couch by Ryan, and Sawyer has held the back of her chair as she sits. I, of course, serve everyone's meal.

She likes it that I am the servant, it's obvious in how she purrs over the men and encourages them to ask me for seconds, more coffee, more Chivas for she and Ethan. I obey, eyes and expression demure, never a trip or a spill. She gloats and simpers, tosses her head about. I wonder if she knows that makes her look like a nervous horse; then I have to keep my head down to hide my smirk.

In my at-home sweats, hair in a ponytail, make-up free and barefoot, I look like a teenager to her perfect make-up and costly outfit. A teenager next to her … five decades? Oh, yeah, she'll think of that part later.

I'll give her credit, the bitch troll can work a dinner table. Even with all her years to practice, the skill to make men at ease and draw them out had to be a part of her DNA. I don't know what my security knows about her, but Ethan is eating out of her hand no less than Sawyer and Ryan before the salads are eaten. She gathers information from them like it's an interview – only they don't know it, I can see that. All of me, and I mean all of me, we watch and listen and take this up front and center stage performance to heart … learning. We're damn good learners.

Once the meal is finished – and damn if she didn't bring McDonald's apple pies – I leave the dishes and suggest that we talk. Ethan heads out for partying at some bar or club with friends. That's one of the nice things about being rich, I guess; you can go out and get a hangover and there's no work tomorrow to be pissed if you're late or call off.

I have Sawyer and Ryan go outside, since I want this to be a private girl talk. I swear they look hurt … I've apparently spoiled them and they like being inside to monitor me for The Sadist. Well, tough luck – its good weather so they'll just have to suffer some fresh air and look for shooting stars. Then Cottie and Bron can take over while I get to know Christian Grey's BFF.

I understand that Mrs. Lincoln has her own agenda. Would it surprise her to know I do as well …

My Conscious and Inner Goddess have been very busy with the dry erase board. They have it all detailed out.

Is there money involved in this Dom / Sub relationship? How does that work, exactly?

How often do these two get together?

Exactly what has The Sadist CG told The Sadist EL about me?

What is their current sexual relationship?

What all advice has SEL given SCG?

Does SCG always listen to her advice? Do as she tells him?

So we sit down. Elena Lincoln all straight-backed and polished, me all comfortable and relaxed. She has the higher seating. I'm a good six inches lower in my chair, allowing me to look up at her face through my lashes while appearing to keep my head lowered. In true Dom form, she strikes.

"I am so delighted you agreed to see me. Christian has told me just everything about you and I wanted to meet you." Those eyes, much lighter blue than mine, glare out from fake lashes. Her voice shivers with that Dom power Christian has … I am assuming he learned it from her. "What has he told you about me?"

_Honestly? I think your name passed his lips the first time last night. When he told me that you gave him the step-by-step to my humiliation punishment. _ Instead, I blink at her. "Just that you're his friend."

She restrains a frown, but I see the pull of her eyebrows indicating she wants to complete the action. _Think, bitch. Why would he not tell me about you? That's got you worried. _"Well, I am his best friend. I think I'm his only friend. I make sure that Christian is happy with his little girls."

I'll bet. "I'll do anything to make Sir, I mean Christian, happy," I reply in a quiet little girl voice. Just because over my dead body will I give The Sadist the delight of this submissive behavior, it doesn't mean that my internet research hasn't shown me just the right way to behave. I'm sure it's not perfect, but it's good. Call me Submissive Ana.

"Very good," Elena purrs. "He tells me you were a virgin, completely unschooled." Those botoxed lips curl. "If you should continue with him, I think some time learning from his past Subs will be necessary."

Oh, bitch, I was getting schooled. Apparently between kinky fuckery and beating his Subs, Christian also learned a whole lot about how the female body responded to stimuli. Particularly the stimuli that he could supply. From panty-dropping smile to that "I know what you are thinking" smirk, and what made a woman go mad with desire when he touched her. He'd obviously spent a lot of time getting educated and learning his lessons perfectly. Had the blonde bitch sitting before me been his teacher? What had Grace said … fifteen through a few years of college? Sounded like a doctorate level course timeline to me!

"Oh?" We pause as Ethan kisses my head, says the usual courtesies, and heads out. I hope Morgan is meeting him; otherwise I'll have to hand-hold tomorrow or when Morgan finds out that Ethan is a fly-by-night kind of guy.

"Yes. I started years ago." Pride is in her voice. "All my contracting Doms now have training tapes for their new Subs. It helps the new girls know what is expected of their Dom, his patterns, wants and needs. It cuts down on the training, makes the Dom so much happier." She laughs again. It's a nasal sound.

I look interested. What I am is … flabbergasted. Not only did the 15, well let's guess the past 10, know what they were doing as professional submissives, they had specific details about pleasing Mr. Grey. I can just imagine that it includes everything: what to cook him for breakfast, what color panties he prefers them to wear, how to suck his cock, what noises he finds the biggest turn on … and what instruments of torture to expect in his dungeon.

"You helped find his past submissives," I ask timidly.

"A side job," she agrees. "Christian is in business with me. My salons, Esclava, are all over Seattle, Olympia, Richland, Spokane. Just to name a few."

_See how successful I am? And what are you, little brown haired girl? Nothing but a desk jockey reading somebody elses writings. _ I can read her thoughts as I politely keep my eyes on her Red Rum nails.

"My salon closest to Christian's home is the one all our Subs use. I know you'll want to get yourself waxed as soon as possible. Christian dislikes bush," she states knowledgably. "Of course he covers the cost."

The bastard has told her I only prune, not shave my bush. I can clearly see that the NDA I signed doesn't work both ways. Note to self: in future affairs, have the guy sign an NDA so the entire West Coast doesn't know my personal grooming habits.

I respond calmly. "Does he now." I get up and refill her glass, return to my seat. "I have … needs," I hint, beginning my play. My Conscious is outlining the plan, pleased to have found another use for the dry erase board. My Inner Goddess is watching Elena very carefully, informing me what she is thinking and feeling, reading her like an open book. It's frankly amazing what all she seems to know sometimes.

Elena's eyes light up. She thinks she has me. "Of course I make a profit off of what, and who, I provide for Christian. But your payment if you sign on under me to learn how to become a perfect Submissive is quite generous. Two hundred and fifty thousand for a fulfilled three month contract."

Two hundred fifty … Christ Almighty! These people are all nuts! "So how much does he pay you?" I finally manage to swallow and relieve my dry throat a little.

"One million," she answers, like it is the cost of a snow cone at Denney's.

Now here's the problem … these people have too much money. And no brains. I can buy that Christian Grey, Billionaire, doesn't care about the money; although I bet he does. Billionaire businessmen still watch the bottom line. So he considers his little BFF to be worth her weight in gold, acting as his pimp. And he considers the cost of his Subs probably well worth the small amount it subtracts from his checking account. Or whatever kind of account billionaires have.

I want to be sure of what the suggestion is here. "So if I sign on with you, Elena," I make my voice drip syrup. "I would contract with you to teach me to be a Submissive. Particularly, Master's Submissive?" God, I should have gone into acting!

She's pleased. Cat slurping up the cream pleased. "I think that would make things much easier all around. Of course, we'd tear up that ridiculous contract about boyfriends and girlfriends. Then there'd need to be a time apart, while I train you to please Christian. Say … one year."

I nod like I can exactly see how that would work. What I actually see is a woman who wants me apart from what she considers to be her property. I'd really like to know their history, Elena and Christian's. But I've already started down another path, so I'll just find another source for that information. Although I suspect who'll be telling me …

"I'm not thrilled with punishment, humiliation," I tell her, eyeing her boots. OK, they're hot. My Inner Goddess tells me we can look them up online later, points my eyes back at her face through my lashes.

Elena strokes her straightened blond locks. I'm betting extensions. "I will admit, Christian has told me you're hesitant about discipline. So I advised him to use humiliation. Has he?"

Finally! Something he hasn't told her already! Since it just happened last night, they apparently haven't discussed it yet. Now I have the opening I need! "No?" I make it a question … what would she have ever suggested? Poor little Ana would have no idea.

The bitch smiles. "I'll let you be surprised. But if you sign on with me, be sure that not only will Christian punish you for such stupidity as going to the papers with that picture, but I will as well."

Oh goodie. I top it off. "Yes, Mistress."

I swear to God, she has an orgasm right there on Kate's Queen Anne chair; her mother gave her a set as a housewarming gift. I get back to my agenda. "How often do you and Sir see each other?"

She sees immediately that I am searching for information, and kindly provides it as she strives to make me see how important she is in The Sadist's life. "We have lunch every Thursday. And of course we socialize."

Which is probably why The Sadist didn't call her to report on how the pee session went. He was saving it for lunch discussion. "Do Sir and Mistress sleep together?" I really want the answer to this.

"Of course." She looks at me, surprised. And over-acts it just a little. "I Sub for him occasionally. But mostly we just have a normal relationship. Nothing for you to be jealous of, Ana dear. It's not contractual." _ Which makes it better than what you and he have together._

I'm almost done with her … at least for this initial meeting. I look up at her and put as much cold calculation into my expression as possible – without over acting. My Inner Goddess carefully paints my expression on. "I sort of had another offer. Dr. Lowe. With the clinic?" Hopefully she knows what I am talking about. I mean, how many BDSM clinics can there be in Seattle? "He gave me your card and said he'd be interested in a contract with me, if I got trained."

I swear she almost has another orgasm. She actually presses her thighs together and squeezes them. I smirk slightly, letting her know that while I might not know shit about sex, and alternative lifestyles, but I get how to make a few bucks selling my body. Those light blue eyes gleam and I am beginning to suspect it's not just money with her; this woman enjoys pimping girls out.

"Richard Lowe. Oh, yes. He's not richer than Christian – who could be? - but he does pay better," she states with satisfaction. "And he has a completely different style than Christian. One you might like better. Much better." Apparently "better" is her favorite word of the moment. "Oh, he would suit you much better."

She nods to herself, stands up with her purse under her arm. "I'll talk to Richard, then give you a call, Ana." She looks down at me as I sit on the couch, a timid mouse ready to be squashed by her black boot. She looks absolutely pleased by my submissive behavior. "This little visit has no need to be told to Christian," she orders.

Too late, bitch. You obviously don't know Christian well enough to know his security tells him everything. "Sawyer and Ryan," I begin.

She cuts me off. "I'll go talk to them right now. This is just a little visit between us. Especially since we could be looking at you contracting with Richard. Christian's never a good sport." And she tramps out to find my security.

Good luck. I smirk for real and head for the shower. When I get out and check the living room dressed in pajamas and a robe, I found I've got a houseful. Sawyer and Ryan, Cottie and Bron are having a heated discussion in quiet tones. They all shut up when I poke my head out. I come out and go to the kitchen to begin cleaning up. "Have you two eaten," I ask my night shift security duo.

I swear Bron looks like he's strangling. Cottie is professionally blank-faced. "We're fine. Ana, do you know who that woman is?"

I start loading the dishwasher. "I think she's the woman who seduced Christian when he was fifteen, introduced him to his BSDM lifestyle, pimps the Subs he contracts with, and is now trying and succeeding in ruining his shot at a normal relationship with me through telling Christian how to behave while he stupidly follows along." I look over my shoulder at the four of them crowded into the kitchen. Then my confidence fades as Taylor parts them and looks at me impassively.

"Leave." They scatter. I'm hoping he means me, too, but Taylor crosses his arms and blocks the doorway. He's big enough that it isn't a challenge. Those green eyes of his consider me as I finish cleaning up. "I've worked for Grey for six years. Took me this long to figure out half of that." He smirks, a quick pull of his lips, before that face goes impassive again. If I hadn't seen it, and my Conscious got a snapshot of it, I wouldn't have believed it. "You're more than a pretty face, Miss Steele."

It's a classic line. Nice to hear I have a pretty face. Other than Kate, Ethan, some guys trying to get in my panties including Christian, I've never heard that. For some reason, it's believable coming from Taylor. "Where is he," I break down and ask.

"Drank himself to sleep an hour ago at Escala." Taylor shrugs. Probably without thinking he reaches for a chocolate chip cookie I made, the cookie jar open on the kitchen table. I pour him a cup of coffee from the pot I'd made at dinner time, set it on the table. "What game are you playing here, Miss Steele?"

I suddenly wonder if my house is bugged. Wired. Whatever they call it when every word you say and move you make is sent through the invisible airwaves to a van outside with geeks monitoring it all. Probably. I think about what I am doing. Then I sit down at the table and really think about it. I look at this large man who has his own motivations by being here with me. "I started out the innocent in this game," I finally state. It's the truth. Of everyone involved I was the only one who didn't have a clue … would I turn the clock back if I could? Maybe. "But no one who knows Christian stays that way."

"Walk away." Its good advice.

"I can't." There. I've said it. The man beat my ass with a belt. He made me pee us and the bed in his dungeon. And still I want him. I crave his presence in my life. I am insane. "Not yet."

Taylor gives me a look that says he doesn't buy the last part. "You want this Lowe guy?"

Yep, I'm bugged. "No. But that troll is going to make a fool of herself trying to get me to choose him over Christian."

"You've got to cut this shit out about the contracts," Taylor advises, then actually turns red and looks down at his coffee cup. "Sorry. None of my business."

I chuckle. For all intent and purpose, he's as involved as me. More, really. I sit there and try to get my head screwed on straight. Elena Lincoln has her claws firmly into Christian Grey. That's between the two of them. Except that Christian chose to thrust me into that little dysfunctional circle and I have been hurt. That had been inevitable, because Christian Grey was one fucked up mothersucker. But last night? That one was on Blonde Bitch's head. She had told him to do that to me. She didn't even know me! She had told him to use that humiliation punishment on me solely because she felt threatened by my presence in her boy toy's life. It had nothing to do with their shitfest lifestyle – she had wanted to drive me away from him.

Guess what? Nobody tells me what to do.

I owe her some serious payback. And if I could make that fucked up son-of-a-bitch Christian Grey sorry, it will just be icing on the cake.

I lifted my head and looked at Taylor. He was just as fucked up as the rest, but at least I understood where he was coming from; it was a job. "How drunk did you say he is?"


	22. Chapter 22

**(Author's Note:** Thanks to for the information!)

It's like shooting fish in a barrel. Big red headed fish with grey eyes that are watery and unclear due to being drunk as a skunk. I don't know if skunks can swim, although I guess they can, but I'm shooting this one as well as the fish. Just because I want to. So there.

Christian is lying in his big bed with that mass of wild red hair in my lap. I've got a fresh bucket close to hand in case he throws up again. Believe me, it is not easy changing the sheets on a bed that's about double the size of a normal king sized bed. I don't want to do it again if I don't have to. I've gotten some water and Advil down him. What is it with him and the Advil. I mean, wouldn't Tylenol work as well? And he's like the richest man in the US of A – why doesn't he have some special pills to take care of drunken vomiting and … whatever?

Now, I lean back against the headboard with its new hardware. Having worked at Clayton's – man, I just need to get over that, I know each screw, bolt, hook, fastener, bracket, and whatnot by name and even measurement. He must have really been excited about tying me up in his bed, because Christian has an entire display of metal attached to the headboard. I could hang up an assortment of sun catchers … pretty bird ones. Or fish and skunks.

I have been grilling dear old Christian about his BFF Elena Lincoln for the past several hours. I am not sure he knows it – he's still drunk and blurry despite the spewing episode. But I am hearing more than I had imagined and more than I am sure Mr. Control Freak would want me to know. Just in case he gets coherent, I am sitting here on his bed with his head in my lap, petting his hair and face as he talks. When I realized that this was some really bad shit, and knowing he's got this violent insane streak, I decided to stage it so I look to be the helpless victim of his emotional outpourings … in other words I chain one of my ankles to the bed and toss the handcuff key across the room to where his clothes are strewn across the floor. Now let's see him get pissed at me when it looks like he restrained me to the bed so I'd be forced to listen to his morbid ramblings.

So at fifteen, acting out angst teenager Christian gets lucky with his mother's best friend. She's a hot blue-eyed blonde, built, and did he mention hot? What fifteen year old boy wouldn't be thrilled? Christian certainly was. They start with education sex: doing everything in the Karma Sutra. He's getting off at least twice a day and what horny teenager doesn't fall in love with what's making his cock happy? It doesn't take long for trollzilla to introduce spanking. And it goes from there.

The first thing I notice in the telling is that Christian is not expressing all the, err, positive things that my research has told me about the BDSM lifestyle. I am not hearing about consent that is informed and freely given, certainly nothing about open communication. Elena gives orders and Christian obeys. He thinks it is because she is teaching him, but I see through that even with him rambling on in a drunken memory blitz. It's similar to how he tried to dominate me: say you want me to tell you what I am thinking and feeling about what is happening, what he was doing to me – then shoot me down hard and fast so I learn to keep my mouth shut if I want the cookie at the end of the tunnel. I have read that BDSM is about experiencing growth, creativity and exploration of interpersonal interaction; every single person, every single relationship, every single interaction is supposed to be different. Mrs. Lincoln didn't teach Christian that, she taught him that it is all the same. No matter the gender and number of partners she put him with; it was ground into him that the actions were to be routine and repetitive.

Not to mention that she didn't teach him to control his sadistic behaviors. She ingrained him to push his and his partners' limits, to enjoy their pain and fear, instead of seeking to explore and support those he abused. Because it was abuse. He felt terrific when he hurt and dominated all these women who I looked like, who looked like me … we all looked like his mother – Christ he is such a sicko!

I listened through how he was a Submissive, how she apprenticed and mentored him. He takes a detour to share how he just loves the vanilla sex he has with me – never mind that tying me up so I can't touch him and all this delayed satisfaction and calling him Sir is just watered down Dom shit – and it's really a first for him and quite a turn on. Then he begs me to stay with him, says how SORRY he is for EVERYTHING.

It takes a little work, but I guide him back to my agenda. The word "sorry" is not going to make anything right between us.

Yes, he meets with his oldest, and when pressed his only "real" friend, Elena Lincoln, weekly. They had lunch, her preference on Thursdays. Of course business intervenes, but they made a good effort. And yes, Christian had told her a lot about me, sought her advice on what to do, how to proceed. Almost three out of four missteps he has made with me were on the suggestion of "Elena." He says her name like it's something special, good. Precious. I almost throw up into the plastic bucket, but hold back. The room smells bad enough from Christian's bout – and I hate throwing up. He says how every time he fucked up with me, it was my fault … I had responded wrong. Not like Elena had told him I would.

But she'd called some things right … I came back like a fucking imbecile each time. But as he slurs and garbles his responses to my questions, my Conscious points out that she's often behind. She tells him that she "knew" how I would respond after he tells her what I did. Not always, but a lot.

Gotcha, bitch!

He grows silent finally and I check my watch. Good old Timex. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking. It's almost five before I doze off, Christian with his head on my stomach and arms tight around my body, me still with my left ankle handcuffed to a chain attached to the end of the bed.

I wake up to the truly awful taste that is Christian Grey's drunk mouth on mine. I'm a slow starter by nature in the mornings, and I haven't had sleep for more than a few hours in the last forty-eight. So I'm punchy. That's my excuse for why I'm partly naked with my hands pinned beside my head and my free ankle over Christian's shoulder. I am so tired that honestly I could try to sleep through this fresh onslaught of sex. Christ knows it's not making love.

I've never looked up sleep sex. I might not. It involves keeping my eyes closed and not moving much as I am pummeled through fast hard pumps of Christian's cock, his pelvis grinding on mine as he tries to make me come. I do, in a half-hearted and disinterested way. My Inner Goddess holds up a scorecard giving me a 1.5 for the orgasm, then crashes on her pink jello bed, out like a light.

Christian rolls off me, breathing hard.

I can feel how he's simply pulled up my t-shirt and bra to get to my breasts, feel my jeans and probably my underwear scrunched on my leg not trapped under one of his thighs. My socks are still on, keeping my feet warm. "Unchain me," I order, eyes still closed. That couldn't have taken long. Maybe I can get another hour of sleep. No, I have to get ready for work. I feel Christian get off the bed, then his fingers warm around my foot as she shoves my jeans up my calf. The sound of the handcuff opening and his fingers soothing what I don't doubt is red flesh under my sock – he wasn't exactly gentle while giving me the 1.5, trying to get my cuffed leg up.

He's swearing now and I open my eyes and look down to the end of the bed. My ankle isn't just red. He's peeled the wet sock down and I can see why it's wet; my ankle, it's bleeding actively. Wow. I must really be tired. Didn't feel a thing.

"Jesus Christ, what did I do?" Christian sounds like he's actually asking part of the triune holy men.

Good. My Conscious applauds us. I sit up, snap my foot away from him and pull my panties and jeans back on completely. Standing, I feel his semen traveling from my core out and soaking my panties then the crotch of my jeans. "You didn't use a condom," I accuse him. Maybe this is some sick game he plays with his Subs. Russian roulette with pregnancy. Bet there's some little Greys out there running around. Maybe I can ask Elena in our next meeting. She probably has a payment schedule between the Master and Submissive.

His eyes, bloodshot, swollen, avoid mine.

Fine. I pull my bra into place, then lower my t-shirt. Ignoring the wet blood at my ankle, I put on my tennis shoes. I pull a hair band from my jeans pocket and tie the mass up high on my head. It needs washed, so I really don't care how it looks.

Christian is sitting on the bed, naked, looking like shit.

Suits me. "I have to go home and get ready for work." And bandage up my ankle. Since I'm the idiot who cuffed herself so it would make me look more innocent this morning, I can't complain. But the sucker is beginning to sting. I march out of the room. My purse is on the couch where I laid it last night. I use my cell phone, still proud of myself for refusing his fucking Blackberry superphone, and tag Cottie. "Who's got me," I ask politely.

She apparently is in Taylor's office because even as she responds that it is her and Bron, she walks down the hall toward me. "I'm ready to go home," I tell her, closing up the phone.

Christian has followed me, now wearing a heavy black robe. He looks like sex, from foot to hair. Even if it is hung-over sex. I focus on how awful his mouth tasted as he thrust his tongue down my throat and give him a cool look. Then I turn to head for the elevator.

"Anastasia."

I wait, purposefully not turning around to look at him.

"We need to talk."

Really? That's all you've got to say? I don't bother to give him a response, limping to the elevator. Great. I can barely walk straight most of the time and now I've got a sore ankle. I'll probably fall into Morgan's desk, and – I remember something. Turning, I find Christian much closer than I had thought. Automatically I startle and jump. He reaches out to grab me and catches the top of my t-shirt as I put too much weight on the left ankle and crumble with a small yelp of pain. The t-shirt is flimsy and it tears, leaving Christian with a handful of shirt as my butt hits the floor.

It had to look one hundred percent worse than it was. I am assuming that from the expression on Elliot's face as he stares at us. Then he pulls back his arm and places his fist in Christian's face.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

I swear to God! Kate made us come back from Barbados three days early because she's worried about Ana. I fought and bitched and moaned, assuring her that if she was with my brother – and ain't that still a twist of the dick since we all thought the motherfucker was gay! – Ana was safe and sound. And I get here after dropping Kate off at her new place, drop my bags in the living room because I had to park on the street, come back out thru the hallway to get a bite of early breakfast and maybe a beer or a scotch … and the MOTHERFUCKINGSONOFABITCH is hitting on this slip of a girl who's my lover's best friend!

I deck him.

One of Christian's security, who should have been shooting his woman-beating ass, picks Ana up and steadies her. I immediately look away from her excellent tits barely covered in a black lace bra that's half torn, and I see she's bleeding from her ankle. Stepping over Christian who's moaning and holding his hands over his eyes because I'm damn sure I gave him a black eye, I lean down and grab her shoe to take a close look.

Oh, sweet Jesus^%! That's a handcuff slice on her ankle. I know because … I know. It just goes to show how piss-poor my messed up shit of a little brother is that he doesn't know you don't use handcuffs on bare skin unless you're trying to hurt a woman. Hell, maybe going straight's too much for him and he wants to hurt Ana.

But what matters now is getting Ana home. I give a loud sharp whistle – you ever work on a construction site? It comes in handy – and Taylor and another guy race down the hall. They look over the situation in a blink of an eye and Taylor hauls Christian up by the collar of his robe and escorts him out of the elevator foyer. The second guy doesn't hesitate to scoop Ana up and Cottie has the elevator already opening.

"Kate's at home. I'll let her know you're on your way, darlin'," I tell Ana, giving her a kiss on her forehead. She seems a little dazed and I can only imagine what my asshole brother has done to her. She's probably in shock. She's such an innocent little thing. Hell, between them they might not even be having sex – what do they know?

As soon as the elevator closes I go into the living area and find Christian sobbing. I mean really sobbing. He's almost hysterical, pulling at his hair, on his knees. He rocks himself and cries out for Anastasia. Considering that he's still clutching Ana's torn shirt and has blood on his hands, I'm not exactly impressed. I consider asking Taylor what the hell is going on but decide I'll wait out the dumb fuck presently beating his head on the marble floor and see what he has to say for himself. While I'm waiting I ask Mrs. Jones to make me breakfast and call Kate.

That conversation goes over like a barrel meeting Niagara Falls. She is extremely protective of her college roommate, who she reports is the most delicate and innocent person she knows. Kate knows a lot of people, too. Her Dad's a media mogul on the West Coast here and she comes from money. Somehow that made my falling for her easier; she's a princess from top to toe and it'll keep me on the straight and narrow to make sure she's treated like one. Anyway, she wants me to kill Christian but I suggest she hold off on planning where to bury the body until after I find out some details. Same with her, I want to know what Ana says is going on. Mrs. Jones waves that breakfast is ready and I end the call with a sincere, "I love you more than life itself, Kate." First time I ever meant those words.

Mrs. Jones has made me an excellent Western omelet with sausage patties, thick buttered toast and strong coffee. She knows how to feed a hard-working man. If Taylor hadn't claimed that fine ass the day she started with Christian, I would have made a play for a few nights with her. As it is, I just admire from a distance. I mean, sorry, but Taylor could take out a motorcycle gang one handed.

By the time I'm done Taylor has gotten Christian to go take a shower so I wait in Christian's office. I sit at his desk and check out his digital frame. I have to admit I'm surprised at the pictures on it. The ones of Ana are obviously taken by his security people and she has no idea. There's pictures of Ana at what I guess is her office, at a park, at a museum in front of several famous paintings that I don't recognize by name right off hand – Mom would have an embarrassed fit -, at our house helping Mom with some flower arrangements … and a handful with her curled up in bed, obviously taken by Christian when she was sleeping. I don't know what he's thinking, but I can say she's got one of the best racks I have ever seen, she's not real big but overall proportion, shape, firmness ... Good thing I'm insane over Kate, or I'd have to take this one away from little bro.

I shake my head, power down the photo frame and go to look out the windows. Sunrise is happening and I watch it peacefully. I admit that I haven't spent much time in Christian's home. He's always working and he's aloof … that's probably the best word … he's aloof with his family. I know he loves us, but he's a handshake and brief kiss on the cheek kind of guy with all of us. Half the time he seems irritated at family obligations, and he rarely stays more than an hour even when Mom is insistent Christian show up for something or other. But since Ana came into his life, I'm suddenly in his home and he's at mine, he's at our parents' home, he's not working continually. So … we'll see what's happening.

"Elliot."

I look over my shoulder, turn and wait to see what's going to happen. Christian is dressed for work, the usual black suit with white shirt, snazzy tie, clean shaven. I have given him one hell of a shiner – that right eye is bruised and swollen almost shut. I give myself a nod and five points. But his other eye is still bloodshot and he looks like someone shot his dog – which Mom never let us have pets but the allegory is good – and wishes he could jump into the grave with the poor mutt. I've tried to be a good big brother to Christian ever since Mom brought him home to live with us. And it was nowhere near easy – he was one messed up little fucker. And it didn't get any easier as he got older. I was glad when he dropped out of college and started becoming a reclusive billionaire businessman … I didn't have to worry about him so much. And when a man has his own security team in tow everywhere he goes … well, Mom and Dad couldn't yell at me that I wasn't watching out for him because he officially had people to do that.

Now, I decide to try and open communication lines. Christian's like a girl; say the wrong thing and he'll clam up and be done with talking. No begging and cajoling will make him open up again. So I take the plunge with all the delicacy at my disposal. "What the sam hell was going on out there, man? It looked like you were taking a swing at Ana while tearing her top off. Not to mention the goddamn cuff tears on her left ankle. If you fucking don't know how to use restraints the right way – then don't use them!" I think that was a fairly good opening.

Christian sits down in a big leather chair and puts his head in his hands. "I've lost her."

To head off any more tears – hell, we're men, not chicks – I break my rule about not offering advice to other guys about women. "Grow a pair, Christian. What the hell was going on? Seriously, I need to know." Because if he really was beating on her, she's gonna tell Kate. Then I'm gonna be one sibling short. I'm in construction; I can hide a body.

And like that, he tells me EVERYTHING. I am sitting here at now nine o'clock in the morning with a glass of scotch over ice. Stunned. My little bro who I thought was gay – hey, I've swung to the left of center a time or two – has actually been swinging with Mom's BFF and doing BDSM shit with women for the past thirteen years. He's not had as many women as me, but then he started this contracting Submissives shit so that slowed his count way down since he didn't "cheat" on them. Since this is about him, I don't share my own experiences …

"What am I going to do, Lelliot?"

He's looking to me for an answer. A real answer. Shit, I'm gonna hafta get involved. It's my kid brother; I have a responsibility. And it's my lady's best friend … I gotta get this whole thing worked out or Kate will go into a royal snarl and I'll never get my cock up that tight ass she's been saving all these years. I sigh, real heavy and loud. "The first thing you have to do is drop Elena."

"Elena?" That's obviously coming out of left field to him. What a babe in the woods Christian is. "Drop Elena?"

"Bro, she's messing you up with Ana – Anastasia." After seeing those tits I'm more inclined to call her Anastasia, too. She's got some royally impressive ones. "Elena telling you what to do … like making Anastasia pee herself because she and her friends rounded up money to donate with a pic to the paps … man that's every which way stupid. Especially after you had a great date like that." I realize now that he'd put those pictures of Ana on his digital frame like just yesterday. He really doesn't know how stupid he is, I think.

He looks at me, puzzled. "You really think so?"

"Man, Elena just wants you to be her toy. It is like obvious. She's jealous of Ana, who if I'm getting you is the only Sub – not that she's your Sub – but she's the only woman you've been with in the last few years that Elena hasn't chosen for you … and who you haven't paid Elena for." I run my hands through my hair – a habit I try to restrain but I've been with Christian for the past two hours and he's rubbing off on me. Hair pulling is something we both learned from watching Carrick.

I wait while Christian thinks it through. Elena's got her claws into him good. I can tell because he's just not ready to give her up. Hey, his call. And, frankly, I agree that he's probably broken what he had with Ana. No woman's gonna come back. Unless … "Has she told you she loves you since you used your belt on her?"

Christian shudders, looks at his shoes. "No."

"Have you told her you love her since then?" I can see he hasn't. Then a nasty thought touches down. "Ever?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not … I can't be … I don't have a heart, Elliot."

I roll my eyes. "Christ on the cross, Christian. Of course you love her. What the hell do you think we're talking about here? Sure, you're obsessed, but you're also in love." Doesn't he have a psychiatrist that he sees? I've got a business to check on, Kate's texted me repeatedly and if I don't actually talk to her instead if texting her that I am really busy and will call her later, soon I'll have permanent vibration marks on my ass from my cellphone. I look at Taylor, who's been dancing around like a kid having to go pee this whole time. "What?"

Taylor looks completely relieved to be recognized. Obviously my brother's emotional meltdown hasn't just disturbed me. He opens his mouth and I can't believe what I hear next. "Mrs. Lincoln contacted Miss Steele at her work yesterday by phone, then went to Miss Steele's home last night for dinner. We don't have audio, but I can show you the visual."

I sit back in a match to Christian's chair and watch the video on a screen that lowers from the ceiling in Christian's office. Christian is furious that there's no audio and I'm frankly suspicious about that myself. But apparently the bugging equipment in the apartment was funky. Then I realize that now that Kate is back, my girlfriend's every move and noise is being monitored as well. I interrupt Christian yelling at his number one to inform them both that the audio doesn't matter because the visual is going, too. I'm not having Kate watched, her every move and word recorded because Christian's obsessed with Ana. He can be crazy on his own time, which isn't any time when Kate is involved.

I'm not bending on this. I am still Elliot Grey, Master of the Universe. What I say goes. We start to go at it and Taylor and another of Christian's goons intervene. After a few more drinks, and now it's obvious neither one of us is going in to work for a while, we get down to some serious negotiating and planning. I have to say, I don't know how Christian got so rich, because he sucks at diplomacy. Maybe it's because now he's got two black eyes, compared to my one, and can't see good enough to judge my expression. But I negotiate out that there's eyes and ears on only the common areas, and only when Ana is in them. What Christian does with Ana's room and bathroom is between him and God.

And now we gotta figure out how to get Ana back on board with Christian, cause he swears his life is over unless he has her. I suggest he calls her and he tries. She has one of his security guys answering her phone and won't take his call. I reassure him that's a normal for any woman who's mad at her man – except for the whole bodyguard answering the phone thing. I suggest flowers – find out she's nixed that firmly by threatening to give the paps a naked photo of her if he bothers her at work at all. He could have told me that before I suggested he call her at work. So we change venue. Flowers, candy, perfume, jewelry – sent to her home with lots of poetry. Women love this stuff.

It's close to supper time when Kate finally gets through to me via Taylor. She's screaming so loud that I think my eardrum busts. I put the phone down on a coffee table and wait for it to stop vibrating as I can't understand a thing she's saying anyway. When it stops, I lift the phone back to my ringing ear. "What?"

"TELL YOUR GODDAMN BROTHER TO QUIT SENDING THINGS!" My hot blonde goddess shrieks. "ANA SAYS IF ONE MORE DELIVERY ARRIVES SHE'S MOVING TO TAIWAN! AND WHO SENDS JEWELRY FROM WALMART WHEN HE'S A SICK BASTARD BILLIONAIRE?"

Christian, who is now lying on a leather sofa and looks like he's outlived a prison riot, turns his head to look at me. I think Kate was using her lungs to the extent that Mrs. Jones in the kitchen making us food can hear her. I check and see a flash of blonde hair disappearing back through to the kitchen and guess I'm right. "Wal-Mart?" I ask my Katydid. And she does.

"CHEAP JEWELRY," Kate explains, emphasizing her or Ana's distress by screaming. I switch to speakerphone, back away as it vibrates across the table like a jumping bean. "YOUR SONOFABITCH BROTHER IS SENDING HER EARRINGS FROM WALLY WORLD! YOU EVER TRY THAT SHIT WITH ME AND I'M GOING TO FIND ANOTHER MAN!"

I motion Christian to keep quiet. I'm guessing that Wal-Mart jewelry is some kind of joke between my little brother and his lady, so don't bother with questioning that. "Sweetheart, you know I've got better taste than that." I make a mental note to send her a pair of sapphire earrings tomorrow. My princess should only have sapphires and diamonds to match her eyes and their sparkle. "What's going on, baby?"

And she fills me in. Ana got home this morning and someone name Cottie had to squeeze through all the paparazzi all over the yard to get a top for Ana to wear, then go back out to the SUV, let Ana dress, and then face the paps again. Since she was limping – and my sweet innocent Kate didn't recognize handcuff lacerations – she ended up falling flat on her face and someone named Bron had to carry her inside because she gashed her knees on the flagstones leading to the apartment. After Kate helped her with a shower – immediate hard on for me picturing Kate's nice sized melons rubbing with naked sudsiness against Ana's plump if smaller kumquats – and got her all bandaged up, Ana tells her that she can't share what's going on with Christian because she signed a Non-Disclosure Agreement. Then she heads off to work.

I look over at Christian who just shrugs and nods. Obviously he hasn't given me the complete story after all. His eyes are little more open as we've been using ice for more than just the liquor, and he winces.

So while Ana's at work Ethan arrives home. He and Kate are close. I don't mean like me and my siblings aren't, we are tight. But Christian has always been fucked up and Mia is so much younger than me – and she's scary – that we just share love and stuff. But Ethan and Kate talk all the time, they have each other's backs continually, and they seem to know what the other one is thinking. It's really more like twin stuff. They are only ten months apart. Guess their parents couldn't hold off each other, I think with a smirk. Having just spent two weeks seeing Kate's mother swing her pert ass around Barbados in a thong bikini and her Dad always chasing her around with a hard on, it's amazing to me they didn't have more kids. He probably got snipped and clipped after Kate.

Ethan has had his suspicions, apparently, because the duo Kavanaugh rip the apartment apart and find all of Christian – I guess it's Taylor's – surveillance bugs and cameras and whatnot. Kate shares she's used the kitchen garbage disposal on them - I turn to see Taylor of the impassive face grimace – and that she's gonna sue Christian for invasion of privacy. Since she just got rid of the evidence, none of us are scared, but my woman's still wound up and has a head of steam. She states on high volume that if she even sees Christian's shadow she will personally cut his balls off and shove them down his throat for making Ana cry. In four years she has seen her best friend cry twice, and that was over some stupid injured animal. The rest have been happy tears. Kate points out that there are plenty of other men Ana could have given her virginity to – Christian forgot to tell me that part, I just thought she was inexperienced – and that he has fucked her head up about relationships so bad that it'll be another twenty-one years before she ever goes to bed with another guy.

Christian moans and rolls off the couch to beat his head on the marble again. I'm not sure if it's because he's hurt Ana or if it is the thought of Ana doing the mambo with another guy.

Kate is still screaming obscenities and threats – I'm planning to wash her mouth out with soap, then show her how best to use it on my big boy – when Christian's phone rings a text notification with the song _She's A Beauty by The Tubes_ – Mom and Dad have rubbed off on him after all. He sits up and looks at it. I'm not paying much attention because Kate's dirty mouth has me so turned on and it's not pleasant to watch a grown man act like an eight year old having a temper tantrum. Still, I hear him say my name and I turn around.

Christian is standing up, smiling, looking like a raccoon gone to rabies. But he's pulled himself back together. He gets in a shuddering breath and hands me his phone.

Well … there is a God.


	24. Chapter 24

The joy of working in my position right this minute, is that I work with hard copy, if I want. This means I have just found a way to put my little plan into action and Christian with his hi-tech security team are going to miss it completely.

I write my request on paper, my back to the computer's all-seeing eye, the overhead camera unable to determine what I am writing as I casually shield the paper with the manuscript in my left hand. It looks like I am writing notes about what I am reading – which I have done before.

**_Dear Morgan, Charlie and Alison. _**

**_You know that I have been involved with Christian Grey – who doesn't now? Well, truth to tell, he had me sign an NDA. That's a Non-Disclosure Agreement. It means I can't share anything with anyone about our relationship. He has me monitored 24/7, including all my electronics. This means that if I communicate with you, you get monitored as well. So please think over this request very carefully. It could mean your job and quite possibly all future jobs if things go south and he gets vindictive. _**

**_I need your help. There is a certain woman of Christian's acquaintance that has been interfering with our relationship – to the point that, having just come out of the closet as far as our dating status, we are already in a relationship mess that I doubt we will be able to overcome. Christian has been close to her since his teenage years and she has a good strong hold on him. So … would you care for an adventure in helping me take down a supreme bitch that is out to bury me? I know our friendships are very new, but I also believe that we were destined to meet and form a strong team. Like the Super Friends._**

**_So … I want to get some details out and start a plan of attack. Here's a catch – we can't talk about it out loud. Christian's security people are always with me – you know, the tree-sized guys and lady who stand around watching my every move and listening to my every word? – and when they're not, I'm certain the room is bugged. So … I propose we communicate in writing. We can pass notes back and forth in manuscripts and none of the "big brother" guys will know._**

**_If after you think through all the ramifications which I am certain include the question of whether I am crazy – I'm not – get a message to me and I'll copy you the details._**

**_No matter if you are on board or not, I love you guys._**

**_Ana_**

And thus starts "Operation Get Troll Bitch".


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note:** Big thanks to Love4Paws for a suggestion on misdirection techniques! Also, the website I thanked earlier is sexualitydotorg.

Esclava Salons are incredibly popular and service the wealthy and privileged. There is no walk in appointments – unless you have the right connections. There are no free days for disadvantaged girls prior to prom. The products sold are exclusive and you won't find them anywhere else. Anywhere. You can get buffed and polished from toe to head then turn around and have them give you a good spit cleaning from head to toe. For the right price, and the right people, you can get in-home, in-office, wherever the hell you want it, services. It's a multi-chain business. And it makes multi-millions.

Reputation is … everything.

In the State of Washington such establishments are, of course, required to have the proper licenses: buildings, services, employees, et al. Inspectors do spot checks of course. But the typical rhythm and flow of such things involves a few free services or an exchange of cash, items of value to ensure those inspections come to nothing. It's a common business practice. Not one that would even raise an eyebrow. A perfectly shaped eyebrow.

KIRO7 and KOMO News have been in competition forever. Along with all the other television news programs on various channels. So far it had been a dry month. Nothing too juicy … other than the news of local billionaire Christian Grey dating an unknown new college graduate who happens to work for one of his newly bought-out companies … When the tip came in that THE EXCLUSIVE salon Esclava owned by older social beauty Elena Lincoln had failed to complete proper licensing forms to the Health Department AND had been secretly hit with health violations eight times in the past two months … it was at least worth a check, a statement from whomever would talk outside the ritzy establishment.

K7 on air reporter Maggie Shelton saw on air reporter Desiree Simpson from KOMO getting out at the curb. The two women had once been lovers and it had ended badly. Since they both had chosen to hide their sexual preference it was even more difficult to pretend civility toward one another in social settings – each having a man on hand and knowing the other was lying to themselves, their families, and their public. One upmanship had gone from professional to personal with a vengeance. Now, Desiree looked her ex up and down and snidely commented, "Guess she needs the services here. Look at those shaggy legs," to her cameraman - loudly. Maggie turned bright red, countered with, "Guess Desiree got sent out for another fluff piece – same as her muff."

It was on.

By five o'clock there was a crowd of press hounding patrons to comment for the lead story of the "House of Beauty Turns to House of Horrors", asking questions about any toenail infections from poor technician tool hygiene, possible spread of STDs during re-use of wax for Brazilian treatments, demanding answers from staff who tried to get them away from the front, side, and back doors. The Seattle Health Department's Division of Cosmetology Licensing, which as a government entity couldn't reasonably refuse to let the press inside its doors – like Esclava could – were most unconvincing as excellent reporters (it was actually the research department of both news stations – but those particular geniuses were unnamed) uncovered free salon services and quickly discovered a "won" full package trip to Hawaii for the lead health inspector.

The public loved it. Radio stations picked the story up. Internet sites caught on quickly.

The exclusive clients … well, they cancelled in the droves rather than be pictured obtaining questionable services when they could afford the very best. How would it look to their friends if they were seen at Esclava before the whole sordid story was straightened out?

At SIP we got word from upstairs that the name would change to Grey Publishing. It sounded dreary to me. Dreary, grey … I had to give myself a dollar for that one. Morgan, bless his big heart and even bigger brains, had come up with a diversion for my electronic stalker within one hour of me sending my manuscript-hidden note out. He reasoned that if all my communications were being monitored and I rarely used them, then the job wasn't so big. But what if I was suddenly flooding the cosmos with bits and bytes; if they all needed scanned? That would take time and maybe a little more effort. And what if it wasn't just me but a whole host of people sending and receiving those keystrokes and images … my goodness! Morgan bet it would be a real headache … and either make the monitor or monitors eagle-eyed or sloppy. Morgan was betting on sloppy.

I had no idea, but I guess it seems obvious once Morgan explains it to me via several notes in manuscripts I am reviewing, the page with his neat hand-writing all but unnoticeable as I hunch over my work, back to the ever blinking eye of the computer and overhead camera. A person can forward his or her phone to my phone, just like I can forward my phone somewhere. Same goes with computers: email, share-messaging, you name it. What a fascinating idea!

By five o'clock, as the news is roaring with safety tips and warnings about dangerous beauty salons and corrupt health departments, my electronics are metaphorically on fire! I am receiving approximately five hundred emails along with attachments an hour. My system turns around and forwards them to an ever-increasing number of group contacts, many of whom send the email right back to me, creating an endless circle. My cell phone has less capacity but is backed up with texts and voice mails, all of which are being forwarded to my email system and join in the fun. Allison, who has time on her hands between greeting and directing people as they come in to SIP, er Grey Publishing, busies herself with creating new email accounts for me by signing into my email accounts – I give her usernames and passwords for both my personal and work messaging. She writes me on paper that is slipped into a manuscript delivered by a modern day version of a copy boy, that she has had a great time using all manner of variations of my name and initials and has topped out at about one hundred new accounts. And she's looking forward to us all going out tonight and what am I going to wear?

All I can do is wonder if it is the legendary Barney or Welch who has to deal with this clusterfuck. And I write her back that I'll just go casual with some kind of pants and top.

All in all, it keeps me awake for the day.

Oh. This and declaring open season on Sawyer and Ryan, Taylor if he ever shows up. Charlie is to thank for that. She notifies the gossip squads on each floor that my luscious bodyguards are hot and available, and very very needy. Before five o'clock both of my security are looking jumpy as females of every shape, size and coloring make it to my out of the way corner to chat them both up. I mean, it has to distracting. Right?

Once I get home, I listened as Kate had a royal conniption fit about Christian to Elliot. It wasn't hard to hear as I got ready for karaoke with my co-workers. Kate and Ethan are joining me; Ethan was happy to link up with Morgan again and Kate wants to meet what I suspect she thinks is competition for my friendship. I'm sure that as soon as she meets Charlie and Alison – neither woman a super-alpha female like Kate, that we will all be friends. I choose a pair of pink leather skin pants, black stilettos, an over-sized faux man's shirt … and a black tie from Ethan's collection, which he is amused to loan me. I darken my eyes with mascara, eyeliner and shadow, put on a redder lip gloss and curl my hair into a wild mass of fat glossy curls that tumble to my elbows.

Kate is still wound up and I sit on the couch with Ethan, typing into my cell phone as we wait for her to be ready to go. We both know better than to interrupt her tirade as this will only make her rev up more. I compliment Ethan on his stylish faded jeans, Ferragamo boots, and peacock blue t-shirt that shows off his six-pack abs perfectly. Then I look over what I've typed in.

Christian, I will never forget what you did the other night. However, in the interest of attempting Happily Ever After, you are notified that I will be at Rock Box Karaoke with the SIP group, Kate and Ethan in the next few hours. Anastasia.

I have no idea if this message will also be sent out to my email and group contacts, but frankly my dear, I DON'T GIVE A DAMN!

My Conscious congratulates me, but it is a sad kind of pride. Without any particular unusual effort Christian Grey has made me a deceitful even evilly inclined person. My Inner Goddess could care less because she's hoping Christian will come to me and we can have more orgasms. She strips down to some weird looking basket-weaved bikini – I think she is confusing me with Kate in Barbados. I don't know if he'll come or not. First, I cannot imagine Christian has done karaoke. Second, it's a regular public bar and since I now have a following of paparazzi he will inevitably be pictured with the lowly people who work with him. Third, who knows if he's had his lunch with Mrs. Lincoln today and shared how I didn't respond with appreciation and admiration for my Dom to my humiliation punishment – like she told him I would. If he did, she could have told him anything and he'll have bought it. Hook, line and sinker. Or is it hook, sinker and line?

A particularly shrill screech from Kate refocuses me. Mindful of Cottie's allergies, I have made all the flowers that were delivered here between this morning and when Kate called Elliot a few minutes ago to demand all the gifts stop, be placed outside. The front yard looks like a florist shop. Or one of those sites where some great tragedy has occurred and a memorial of flowers and candles with heartfelt signs and writings have begun to pile up. Kate talked me into accepting the perfume, candy and jewelry. She's a secret candy-holic. We got a good laugh over all the Wal-Mart jewelry, although she used that to beat Elliot over the head so he'd buy her jewelry. I know Kate very well. Besides, I can re-gift the perfume for years to come – it's all that outrageously expensive stuff that I let Spritz Nazis hit me with when Kate takes me to Neiman's on her twice monthly shopping trips.

The notes, none of them in Christian's expansive mostly unreadable sprawl or tiny printed letters with the elegant little curls when he ends a sentence, I review briefly. But I quickly realize that they are standard florist fare and show nothing original or even particularly special. Of course, if Christian does come tonight and asks if I got his gifts I now have a way to sting him.

Kate suddenly throws a pillow at me – hard. I look up and she is back to screaming her lungs out. "You invited him to come with us?"

Well, Elliot is obviously with Christian, who shared my invite. I try to look sorrowful and nod. Kate hangs up the phone without another word and … holds her breath. I've seen her do this before when her Dad wouldn't buy her a Lamborghini for her nineteenth birthday. And when her Mom wanted her to go out on at least one date with some guy from her Mom's tennis club. Then there was the time a police officer tried to give her a ticket for speeding … it scared him so bad when she turned blue that he ripped the ticket up right then and there.

Sawyer and Ryan start to look panicked as she turns blue, but I wave them off and roll my eyes. They don't look reassured but go back to holding up their separate pieces of wall. We're going to be eating at the karaoke bar, so I remind them to order sandwiches or appetizers early just in case Christian should come. I'm sure he wouldn't approve of his security staff eating while they are watching me.

Ethan isn't any more scared or impressed than I am with his sister's dramatic protest to my being in touch with Christian. "Kate, she's in lust with the bastard, not love. If they get all that hot intense sex thing expressed now it'll be over before the summer ends." He shrugs philosophically. He's a psychology major and feels he knows it all about relationships.

But he may have a point. Both Kate and I stare at him, Kate forgetting to hold her breath and me with my mouth hanging open. Seeing he has an audience, Ethan expounds. "It's the whole Romeo and Juliet thing. Say no and the kiddies want to sneak out and do the dirty long and hard. Open the door, remind them to use protection and be home at curfew," he shrugs, tries to look like a professional shrink, "and you quickly end the lure of forbidden fruit."

Kate considers this, looks at me and grins. "Boy, Steele, when you jump overboard, you don't even take a life preserver. But my big brother may have a point. So far be it from me to act like Juliet's overbearing and unreasonable father. You just keep seeing your hottie, the one who makes you cry and look like crap, until the urge wears off. Then I'll help you castrate him."

Ethan grins. "That's the ticket." He stands, looks around at security and makes a shooing motion. "Let's get going before the paps have all the good seats."

He's joking but Sawyer – who I've given the requisite notice to when this venue was selected by my amigos two days ago – exchanges quick looks with Ryan and I sense that Ethan may have foreshadowed more of the truth than he knows.


	26. Chapter 26

**Barney's POV**

CRAP!

**Welch's POV**

HOLY SHIT!

**Taylor's POV**

Miss Steele comes back to Grey, after what he's done to her, and the fucker chains her to the bed and she ends up with her ankle lacerated. Then he attacks her in the foyer.

Fuck it. I'm cutting out the audio portion of video on her meet with Mrs. Lincoln. Whatever that little girl is up to, more power to her.

What do you mean we need disguises so you can go meet her? She's giving you _another _chance? You are one lucky mother, Grey. Maybe your brother beat some sense into you and you'll treat her like the Princess she obviously is. Unless Miss Steele is planning to have you killed at this bar Sawyer says she's going to be at … I'll call in a few more men. I don't need this job, I've got other offers. But it always looks bad on the resume when your employer gets bludgeoned to death by a little brown-haired girl who weighs a hundred pounds.

**Sawyer's POV**

This is going to be fun. Not. Kavanaugh has no idea how right he is. The paps will be inside and outside this karaoke bar like flies on shit. I've got twelve guys already working the bar. They've prepped the staff and owners, the police are primed, and my guys on-site here have taken aside every pap outside to remind them that if the lay hands on Miss Steele it will result in maiming and possibly horrific disfigurement. But I know someone's going to try. They just don't have any sense.

Since it looks like Grey is going to be keeping tabs on Miss Steele for the foreseeable future, I'm going to work out a training program with Cottie. It goes easier when our subject knows what we need him or her to do. And this little lady is smart as well as quick-witted. Kind. Sweet. And hard-working. I've never seen a person work at their job so hard as she does; especially today. Unless it's Grey.

**Elena's POV**

I don't know who fucked what up, but my lawyers are going to get this health violations bullshit straightened out. We had eighty percent cancellations average for the entire chain! My PR firm is already working on how to cover the situation, do damage control.

Christian's secretary called me to cancel our lunch. He was with his brother for something, she wouldn't be more specific. That's fine. I'm certain he'll give little Miss Steele her special pee humiliation this weekend. After that she should run screaming. And if not? I don't think it will take much to convince her to sign on with me. Then I can tell her she has to stop seeing him while she's in training. I've got two Subs who look almost exactly like her on handle on the East Coast; Charlize is willing to let me buy their contracts from her, or possibly do a trade. Christian can wear them out in his playroom and hopefully figure out that one brown-haired blue-eyed girl is the same as the next. I'll feel better once he's back under my thumb.

Although it's barely seven o'clock the Rock Box Karaoke is already busy. I'm still limping a bit, so of course I fall through the doors as we enter. Ethan performs an amazing catch with my face a mere six inches from the concrete floor. He's had extensive practice over the past four years we've known each other. Kate tells him the Japanese judge gave him a 4.7 because he didn't point his toes. I give him a 6 because I didn't kiss face with the floor. After we all look expectantly at Ryan he grudgingly says it's a 3.2, since Ethan had to grab one of my tits instead of getting a hold on some other part of my anatomy. Sawyer just glares at us and won't play; he straightens out my clothes with professional impersonal care and all but pats my butt as he shoos us to a table that miraculously opens up.

Kate has been drinking Barbados drinks, as well as Ethan, so they order up a round they say is very island-popular called the Panty Dropper. That of course makes me think of Christian's slow sexy smile. The one smile that makes me wet my panties and want to drop them so he can fuck me. Maybe drinking isn't such a good idea. I haven't had enough sleep in forever, I haven't really eaten much in days, and my emotions and thoughts are so mixed between lust and loathing that I don't think clearly now – how would I be drunk? My Conscious holds up a sign for AA:

admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.

to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong, promptly admitted it.

through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

You know, these sound a lot like how to deal with Christian … hmmmm.

My Inner Goddess counters with a sign for Intimacy:

•Eye to Body

This happens every day and is pretty insignificant. You simply look at the other person.

•Eye to Eye

You make eye contact- maybe you are flirting. It's the first real step toward intimacy.

•Voice to Voice

You talk to the other person. This can be very important in getting to know someone.

•Hand to Hand

You start holding hands- the relationship has now become more than just friendship.

•Arm to Shoulder

Allowing yourself to be this close physically is the beginning of closer intimacy.

•Arm to Waist

Your comfort level is beginning to grow.

•Mouth to Mouth

You now feel comfortable with kissing the other person.

•Hand to Head

This is a sign of trust; your head is very vulnerable and we do not like just anyone touching our heads or faces.

•Hand to Body

"Roaming hands"... this is the beginning of foreplay and "making out".

•Mouth to Breast

You're comfortable with using your mouth to explore the other person's body, and vice versa.

• Hand to Genitals

Not quite sex- many young couples that aren't ready for sex find this a suitable substitute.

•Sexual Intercourse

The final stage- it doesn't get more intimate.

I'm interrupted from my internal battles by the arrival of half a dozen colorful glasses. I order a pitcher of water. Smirking, the waiter hurries off. I look around casually as more people start to crush in. It hits me that I seem to be the focus of attention for quite a bit of the room. Alarmed, I look for Sawyer. He is nearby, leaning against a thick squared post, eyes calmly on me. I blow out a breath, then offer him a smile. Out of all this mess, he is a rock. Reassured by his very presence, I let go of my paranoia and nerves, and focus on having a good time. And why shouldn't I? My first battle has been waged and won. And my opponent doesn't even know she's under attack.

Morgan arrives first and I feel a little relieved when Ethan pops up and lays a long sweltering kiss on him. One less problem in this world. Charlie is able to make it in next and she sizes up Kate as I take turns anxiously sipping a Panty Dropper and ice water, managing a half glass of both before they get the pecking order in. Kate, of course, is on top. She graciously allows my new friend to stay at the table. Allison arrives and the same occurs. That means I've got a full island drink down and another of water. Cottie is here now and she goes with me to the bathroom.

That was a good idea, because I'm attacked by three, count 'em three paps in the ladies' room, babbling questions about me and Christian. Cottie is amazing. She says all three tripped and rammed their heads into the hand dryers. That's before I'm back out of the stall I ducked into. I get to see a fourth one "trip". This woman is amazing! Like a kung fu master, only female. I'm thinking the First Lady should have her on hand. Or one of the President's kids. Back at our table things are getting rowdy. But to be fair, the whole place is. SIP, GP, hell whatever we're now called, has begun to pack the place even more than it was. The management opens a back area reserved for weddings or something and the crush eases up.

The karaoke is a huge draw and with the back room opened up, there's room to dance. After another Panty Dropper and requisite glass of water, Ethan, Morgan and I make a nice Ana sandwich dancing in the back room as the music blares in from the front. I'll admit that I haven't been a campus or even off campus party girl the last four years; but by God I have watched Kate practice, even practiced some of her party girl moves, so I can swing my hips in a figure eight when necessary. That … and the second drink seems to have helped my coordination. Or the sex. Dancing dirty with two gay guys is a lot like sex. Just less bondage and no humiliation. Unless you count the fact that they are busy feeling each other up around me as being humiliating. I didn't.

It may be illegal to smoke inside bars now, but that doesn't stop everyone and the place is soon lit eerily by the overhead lights and smoke. That or my third Panty Dropper is clouding my vision. When I feel a Zip Zap up my spine I am in a four girl smash with Kate, Charlie and Allison. We're all rubbing against each other like minks in heat, which all the guys around us are greatly enjoying. I feel like an idiot, but a safe one. My friends aren't making me beg for an orgasm or telling me I have to lie still while balancing ice cubes on my body. And they sure as hell aren't beating my ass with a belt or making me pee myself. It is sad how my thoughts on what is safe and secure have changed.

Anyway, I get the Zip and I turn my head to look toward the feeling. And I get the Zap when I see this tall guy with long black hair in a ponytail, sculpted goatee and mustache like Brad Pitt in his younger days. We're inside and it's a fairly dark and very smoky bar and he's wearing aviator glasses. I sweep him with my eyes. I have no idea what's on his feet, but he's got on black cord pants that melt around his long legs and showcase a package – I blush and look away. But there's a draw there and when Kate turns me so my back is to her front and she runs her hands over my breasts while grinding her hoochie into my butt, I check the rest of him out. He's wearing what looks like a cowboy shirt, and he's got – OMG – a gold chain around his neck. But damn if I don't get a Zing.

When he reaches out and just plucks me out of Kate's surrounding arms … it's hot. I'm hot. He has his arms around me in a New York minute and I slide my hands up his chest which I can feel is rock hard and muscled, stroke my fingers over his neck bared by the cowboy shirt left unbuttoned and link my fingers at the back of his neck. He thrusts a thigh between my legs and I get to try out my pole dancing. I dance around his leg, my thighs over his, rubbing my suddenly aching and wet body on that rounded rock. His hands clamp on my hips and I notice how large they are. In fact, I am abruptly noticing a lot of things. How he is just the right height. How his body is warm, hot, but he's not sweating like Morgan and Ethan. How the front of his black hair, at the top of his forehead, has a soft tan roll of material, not even noticeable if you hadn't had a Mom who wore a lot of wigs.

I close my eyes and lean in, still dancing on his thigh. Breathe in deep. Something spicy and soothing. Yep. Christian.

So my question is, does he think I won't know? Is this some new weirdness? My Conscious falls out of her tree house – it's where she likes to go when the rest of us mere mortals are on a dance floor – she's got the lookout. She repeats my question: _is this some new weirdness of Christian's? _ Well … DUH … the man is weird from the get-go. He probably does this weekdays, picking up women at bars, clubs, dressing up so he won't be known. Are there special hotels or motels where you can take a woman you pick up so she can get bound and beat? The ones where no one complains about the screaming? No, really. My question should be where the drive thru is for NDAs and contracts for one night encounters. Is there a speedy version? _Everything goes, check here. Otherwise place a check in all boxes that apply. Sign here. That's seventy-five bucks. You two, or three, or four … have a good night. Here are some free condoms. Come again and tell your friends._

Shaking my head I spring back, which since I'm riding Christian's thigh is like trying to dismount from a log, and even as he grabs both my elbows and pulls me back against him, grinding his erection straining against his black cords against my ass, I look at Kate. The guy she's dancing with looks like mine: black hair in a ponytail, aviator glasses, beard and mustache. He's also tall and built. And he's got Kate in his arms and is slow dancing, ignoring the harsh fast beat and other gyrating bodies. Their mouths are mating and he's obviously doing a good job at seducing Kate. Her fingers are wrapped around the edges of his shirt and her head with its long curled and waved blonde hair, is resting fluidly against his shoulder, tipped up for the ravishment of his mouth.

Yep. Elliot.

So, Christian did respond to my text. This was unexpected. I lead him back to my table, accept a fresh glass of ice water from Sawyer who is making sure none of my drinks are drugged. I foolishly try to sit and drink at the same time, missing the chair with my large ass and spraying water heavenward. Cottie catches me with her foot and pretty much lifts me before I hit the dirty floor and nudges me over to the chair once more. Christian in black pony tail disguise, grins and carefully plants me on the seat before dragging another one next to mine. Boldly he takes my wrist and brings the almost empty glass to his mouth, drinks. Oh, Lord! I want his mouth. I want his tongue. I want to feel his teeth grazing over my naked flesh. How much have I had to drink?

My Inner Goddess takes over. It happens. That's why I keep her locked up. But she escapes sometimes. In a drunken haze I take Christian's hand and put it boldly over my breast while I lean in and put my lips to his ear. "I want you to give me orgasms. Lots and lots of orgasms," I shout there in his ear. And before he can respond, my body revolts. Whether it's because I'm propositioning the man who is my torturer or because of the alcohol, I need to throw up.

I bolt for the door that says EXIT near the bar. When I say bolt, I don't know how it looked. But when desperation calls, not wanting to throw up on innocent karaoke patrons, I can be quick and slippery. When the cool air hits my face I get my eyes focused on a big black dumpster. Good enough. The rush of vomit coming up from my stomach, burning my throat and out through my mouth is tremendous! I think an entire Chinese buffet is coming out of me. My body would have pitched forward and into the dumpster, but strong arms held me tight, half leaning over the stench of the ground and garbage piled on the concrete. Another round erupts and I hang helplessly until I'm empty. Then a clothe wipes my face.

I wonder if I have a soul left, or has it been stolen from me? Not so long ago I was a simple college girl with dreams of a decent job and a new engine for my car named Wanda, someday a home and family.

Now I'm almost a sexual submissive for a perverted Dom, if I let him have his way. He has my heart, the no good bastard. I gave it to him somewhere between falling into his office and the second time he kissed me. Not that he can appreciate it, nor does he deserve it. He's ruined, damaged; not from his childhood, but by training and indoctrination into a life of sadism and personality dysfunction.

And I'm a woman on a mission to destroy the one who made him this way.

On that note, I pass out.


	27. Chapter 27

I wake up feeling like shit. Crawling out from under the blazing sun that is Christian's body heat, I see it's almost seven. I stumble to the bathroom and straight into a cool shower. I get myself clean, although it seems like I'm not in such a bad condition – maybe Christian gave me a shower. Who knows or cares at this point. I wrap myself in one of the oversized towels, sit down on the nice padded bench and blow dry my hair with my head resting on the cold marble of the countertop. That done, I dig around in the drawer Christian put all those toiletries in for his fucking submissive – me – and do the essentials. Deodorant, teeth, etc. Etc, etc, etc … I even find a new supply of bobby pins and tame my hair into its stern chignon. He's got my favorite brand and fragrance of body lotion, my makeup – well, the makeup Kate bought for me. Same brand, same colors.

Then I manage to get back out of the bathroom. Christian is lying awake on his over-sized dramatic bed. Really, he's a drama queen. Or drama king. For someone who claims he doesn't have sex on that bed, why have it then? A nice little single, extra-long, would do it, right? Yet another lie. He watches me as I duck into the closet and find the Sub section. I can't wear what I wore to the karaoke bar last night, even if he had it cleaned, which I'm sure he has. So fuck it! I'm wearing Sub clothes. I select a lace bra and panty set, dive in. Lucky for him, isn't it that he chooses all us girls with the same figures. The clothing fits. All cats are grey in the dark, right? Grey cats, Grey bastards. Ha ha. I'm on my mark, even if it is early.

I put on a simple navy blue wrap around dress that hugs my figure and looks professional at the same time. The four inch killer heels are going to rip through the skin of my feet. Luckily, I have packages of thigh high hose in my desk drawer at work. Satisfied, gaining momentum now despite a sour stomach and eye-twitching headache, I dash back out of the closet.

Christian is sitting up, watching me. "How do you feel, Anastasia?"

"Like shit. I can't be late to work." I'm not up to looking at his face, his eyes, his mass of copper hair, the non-stop body with the light red curls over his chest and trailing lower. He swears viciously and follows me as I dash out of the bedroom, moving fast. I find my clutch bag and, thank God, my cell phone. I probably could have yelled their names down the hallway toward Taylor's office, but it seems polite to hit the speed dial for Cottie. "I'm ready," I tell her the second she answers.

Gail Jones, looking gloriously normal and at home in the kitchen smiles at me as I skitter in, nearly going down as the soles of the high heels don't have skid assisters. Christian's hand on my upper arm keeps me from crashing. I see her face flush and she moves out a door. Looking over my shoulder, I see why. A naked Christian Grey. I smirk. "You're scaring the help."

That's all I get out because Christian hauls me up his chest and starts kissing me. I squirm, press at his shoulders, then decide I'm not fooling anybody and kiss him back. Our mouths mate like warm syrup and butter, slipping, slurping, melding, all hot and creamy and sweet. Given that he's naked, I roam my hands over his hot skin. I'm kneading his shoulders, loving the feel of his muscles bunching as he shifts me to the position he wants. My fingertips are discovering the soft hair on his chest and I am getting desperate for a full breath of air, when I realize the danger.

I am in Christian Grey's apartment. Nothing good happens here. I am vulnerable from my heart to my ass to my ability to be embarrassed by normal bodily functions. With an effort I jerk my head back. Christian counters with his hand to the back of my head and brings me back for more mouth on mouth. At least I got a full gasp of air in. Why isn't he having a fit about my naked hands on his naked chest? Where's the freaking out? The fear? Shouldn't my hands be bound whether I want them to be or not? It's just too much and I begin to struggle. Without shame I use my card. "Red." It comes out garbled because Christian's mouth reattaches to mine as soon as I get it free.

But he must have heard me because he takes his mouth off of mine and pulls his head back far enough to see my eyes. His are wide, the grey dimmed by the expanded black pupils. "What?" He's incredulous.

"Red," I repeat. It's hard to get the word out because my mouth feels bruised and sore and swollen – in just a few minutes – but I've done it. "Red." This time I spit it out.

He lets me go. Good boy. And I pour it all out in one big glop. "Christian, I can't be here. With you. I feel like I'm in a horror movie, just waiting for the monster to beat my ass, make me pee myself, or worse, show me a good time then do those things like a fucking devil. You think about yourself first and foremost and I can't understand how you can be so cruel to me."

He breaks in while I try to choke in some involuntary sobs. "What the hell are you talking about? Anastasia, I want you." He stops, like he's offering me some great gift, and gives me those soulful puppy dog eyes.

And there it is. The big difference. I love him and he wants sex. Poor little me. Time to draw the picture in something other than chalk. "No. I can't be with someone I'm afraid of. It's not a turn on for me. If you could hold it just to the bedroom or your fucking Red Room, maybe. But you fucked up no end with that trip to the museum. I loved that, then you ruined it. Now I can't even look at a picture on the wall without wanting to scream. DON'T INTERRUPT ME," I scream at him. I pick up the coffee mug Mrs. Jones has laid out on the counter and throw it against the wall. The sound of it breaking, the pieces flying in wild untoward patterns helps me regain control. It's a seesaw … something else is out of control so Ana can be in control. Maybe that's what's wrong here. He's always in control so I can't be. Not this time.

"I fucked up last night. Got drunk and threw up outside. Big deal. People my age do that. Hell, people your age do it. And even if it's not normal, I don't deserve to be punished!" There, I've said what's driven me since I woke up. I'm terrified of what he's going to do to me next.

Christian, still glorious naked – and how he can still have a hard on when I'm freaking out, screaming, crying and breaking tableware is beyond me – crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the doorway, and gives me his I'm in charge CEO of the world look. His grey eyes are hot, not quite the usual blank or cold stare. It gives me an uneasy feeling. My eyes flit beyond him to the hallway and the living room. Cottie, Bron, Taylor and someone else are standing there, staring past Christian's naked ass to watch me. I wonder if Christian knows I've drawn an audience.

"Who said anything about punishment," he drawls now, smirking.

Oh, no. Not this time. You're not putting on some mask to make me feel like a foolish little girl. "Who said anything about it the other night," I snap. "I thought your BDSM shit was supposed to be agreeable to both parties and pleasurable. Oh, I forgot … those are rules you can't be trusted to use!" I'm still screaming, vicious in my delivery.

That gets him. He jerks slightly, at the shoulders and the hips. My Conscious is working overtime to read his body reactions.

"Better yet, it's all about being pleasurable for _you_. What turns _you_ on. What _you_ want and need." I stop myself, before I wind down too much. I've got a hangover, so keeping wind in my sails isn't working. If I'd practiced more in college, I'd be doing better.

"If you think what I did the other night was for my benefit, you're wrong. It was for you." He's grim, certain.

"Fuck you! I don't need a father to teach me a lesson. You aren't the boss of me. If I want to dance naked on the street corner, that's between me and the police. You don't get to say it's wrong or right and you don't get to punish me if you don't like it. There's no censoring in my life, you have no right to condemn or judge me. What the hell were you thinking," I finish with a rapid rise to screaming again.

Out of breath both emotionally and physically, I stand still, one hand on the breakfast bar to hold myself upright, breathing hard. Funny … I feel better.

"Is it my turn now?" He sounds cool, calm, like a parent dealing with an out of control teenager. He's the controlled one.

I shrug. It feels like a scene out of my teenage years with Ray, my Dad. I think it's an image a man who wants me to suck his cock should try to avoid. Unless he's fine with incest and pedophilia. Well, I know he's ok with the second. At least when he's the victim. God, I need a drink.

"Anastasia, I take full responsibility for the mess our relationship is in. I've approached it wrong from the beginning. I should have recognized you could never be a full submissive. I've had to seek advice … and I'm beginning to think maybe it was wrong."

_Oh, boy, you can say that again! _

"I'm sorry."

"It doesn't help. You can't make how I feel go away." _And I can't make you stop being crazy … and me being in love with you._ "I have to get to work." I move past him and Cottie and Bron hurry to follow me, Cottie speaking into her phone, probably ordering the standard black SUV around.

"Anastasia."

I don't look at him. Looking at Christian, looking into his too-handsome face and those odd grey eyes is deadly for me. I think a mouse looks at cheese the way I do, hopelessly drawn and helplessly hungry; able to ignore the steel jaws of the trap where the cheese lies.

"I'll see you at your place tonight."

And like the stupid bitch I am … "I'll make supper."

Then I'm inside the elevator and again I practice my stare at the silvery wall until it closes. Then I turn and look at Cottie. She's got the prettiest dark brown eyes. "I think he's coming around."

She snorts, but doesn't disagree.

o0~0o

Washington State University has a wonderful Master Gardener Program. Marvelous. I may have spent a lot of time on my studies, but I still managed to get to know people. Kate was a magnet, with people always in our off-campus apartment. And there were always a few people I would invite, just to be friendly. After four years, I had at least a brushing knowledge of a few people in maybe each major on campus.

Since I couldn't really contact anyone without the possibility of Welsh or Barney jumping on it, I let Charlie take the next assignment.

Ants are a fascinating species of insect. They have structured families of specialized ants. Some defend the nest, while others strictly forage for food. The queen strictly lays eggs and the others bring her food and deliver the young. Most ants are not a danger to your home or business, but one is. The carpenter ant is an ant that drills through the walls of your home to get at food. While the carpenter ant doesn't eat the wood, it does carve out tunnels to make its nest and passage ways, thereby destroying the wood. They are typically black in color, but are also known to have species in brown and red colors. At ¼ inch long, they are one of the largest ants in the U.S. They tend to have a large localized nest with others spread around various parts of your home, office building, or a tree, so finding their nests can be tricky. Look for wood powder or residue for signs of carpenter ant invasion.

o0~0o

"I feel like something's crawling on me … what's that?"

"Ouch! OH MY GOD!"

"AHHHHH!"

Elena, in the middle of chewing on a celery stick, froze at the sound of a scream, then more. She was out of her office and staring at the expanse of her salon floor in mere seconds. Women were screaming and flapping their arms like windmills. Staff were adding to the sight, their hands flapping. Giorgio was aiming his hairdryer at the floor. Mrs. Turtlebeam was standing on her hair washing chair, howling. Brettina was screaming and jumping up and down.

It took her a moment to realize that there were small black and red things crawling over … everything. Ants! Christ they were everywhere! As if sensing her, there was a line steadily chugging toward Elena even as she took the whole thing in. Something dropped down into her hair and she felt pinching on her neck. It was involuntary to scream, even for a disciplined woman, when something small and horrific was biting at her bare neck and trouncing through her hair.

Elena screamed for all she was worth.

It took two hours to get help.

"Lady, Carpenter ants should be killed by a professional exterminator," Bradley Sorenstein stated calmly. He put his weathered pen back behind his ear, tore off the top of a triplicate form. "Here's your estimate. Take it or leave it."

"Two hundred thousand dollars," Elena screeched, feeling the urge to pull her hair out, now that it had been freshly washed and combed free of the vermin. Her insurance had better cover this.

"That's for the whole year, plus keeping my mouth shut to the Health Department. I watch TV," he added at her hard and accusing look. "You can't afford any more bad inspections, I hear."

Elena ignored that, glared at the estimate. "How long before they're all gone?"

"Maybe three days. Get yourself a good cleaning crew, one that'll actually get up in the crawl spaces, vacuum these bastards all out, you can be back in business on Tuesday." He shrugged large bony shoulders. "I can give you a good line on some people."

"What if I cut you a deal?" Elena sized him up. "I know a lot of people … women who like your type of man," she hinted, a little less than her normal smooth approach, but he was blue collar, after all.

"Sorry. Got me a little woman. Nice thought, though. You want to get a second estimate or should I call in my crew?"

"Fine." Elena felt the mother of all headaches pressing at her temples, behind her eyes. She dug out a few pills from the reception desk, dry swallowed.

"I get paid up front." He smirked at her outraged look. Taking the pen back down from his ear, he wrote out a bank account number. "Wire transfer. Soon as I get confirmation, your ants start dying."

She couldn't believe this! Dammit! She strode to her office, careful to avoid the pools and spills of traveling ants. She'd sprayed herself with hairspray and at least the devils weren't crawling on her now. It took a half hour to transfer some investments into ready cash, then have it transferred to whatever bank account the numbers from this glorified gardener had given her. The desk got kicked and she whimpered when the action bruised her toes. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

"Ok, money's there. I'll get my boys in. You'd best take off, stay out of the way." He watched her collect her purse from her fancy desk's bottom drawer, then shrink back as a surge of the ants came up out of her bag. Smirked when she aimed the hair spray into her bag and emptied the can into it. Then she got out her ruined change purse, holding it by two fingers, and her car keys. "Have a good weekend, Ma'am."

Cursing, Elena headed out the back door. "Don't forget to lock up when you leave."

"No, Ma'am." He pressed a button on his cell, waited for it to be answered. "Go."

Through the swirled glass window press cameras and reporters caught it all as men in blue plastic suits, tented head coverings with oxygen pumped in for their chemical-free air needs, sprayed slimy looking bug killer all over the exclusive country-club setting of beauty and luxury.

Just in time for the five o'clock news.


	28. Chapter 28

Dear Readers ... this story has hung in space too long. Despite attempting to pick it up repeatedly, I cannot return to the exact mindset of when I was writing this. Believe me when I say that the tongue-in-cheek and sarcastic inner monologue Ana was not easy to write.

Therefore, I am ending this story at Chapter 27.

The good news is, having finished the writing project which interrupted this one ... I am going to start a Part II for It's Gonna Hurt.

Enjoy reading and I strongly encourage you: if you can read you can writie, if you can make mistakes you can improve, and if Ana can forgive Christian until either one of them dies horribly when a rabid Chihuahua attacks them on the sidewalk outside of GEH then we can all enjoy reading Fifty Shades Fan Fiction forever.

Sincerely, Hard Pouncing


End file.
